


Becoming a Hero

by Mr_Baldwin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:30:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 81,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4240827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Baldwin/pseuds/Mr_Baldwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does it take to control your destiny? What does it mean to be the hero the world needs, but not the one that the world deserve?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Prologue

Riddle Manor

Dimly lit, the room's furniture outnumbered the humans within, and even that was a sparse amount. Dark furniture, quite to the taste of the new owner, littered the large room in a disorganized manner. The curtains fluttered with a breeze that held no origin. The room held no windows, any light was provided by the candles that floated on the chandelier, and the large fireplace on the opposite wall of the room's only door. Bones of various vermin littered the area near a large, throne-like chair, as if a tribute offered by the large snake asleep near the fireplace. The Riddle Mansion was a dark, and quiet place.

Outside, on the extensively protected grounds, prowled a few beast that most would shy away from in the daylight, and that none would want to face in the dark of the night. The rain, making it difficult to see, made a trek to the doorway treacherous and deadly for those that strayed off of the chosen path. If one gained access to the grounds, the myriad of enchantments placed around the grounds would be sure to alert the occupants. The atmosphere provided an almost comically spooky headquarters for the most feared person on the planet. Within those walls, though, the horrors were real.

The master of this home had long since hidden the mansion from all that he did not deem worthy. Powerfully, he had constructed arcane rituals utilizing Blood Magic and the remains of some of his enemies in order to secure his premises. It would not do to have any Aurors intruding on him, or worse yet - Dumbledore.

"Crucio!" Voldemort spat, suddenly, breaking the silence and watching, in sick pleasure, as the woman below him squirmed in pain. Or was it pleasure? He could never tell with this woman. "You've displeased me Bella."

The woman in question looked up at the Dark Lord. "My Lord, forgive me. I was only trying to retrieve the prophecy. I was -"

"And yet, I was forced to show myself to save you." Lord Voldemort interrupted, his voice a mere whisper, but stopping her sentence before she could completely formulate it"Now, you have jeopardized many of my plans. No matter, you're lucky that I need you …. Otherwise, you might have found yourself permanently expelled from my order." He continued to pace back and forth, his shadow, produced by the limited light in the room, loomed over her trembling body.

The look of fear on Bellatrix's face was in stark contrast to her usual sadistic sneer. She was quivering. She lived to serve her Lord and Master. Where others had only sought power by following the man who must surely be the most powerful Sorcerer ever, she had already come from a Pureblood family of insane riches and power. She believed in his plans, his ideas for the magical world. She counted herself as a revolutionary, and even an original thinker. She was no mere Deatheater, but the right hand of the Dark Lord. Surely there was some way that she could redeem herself.

It was Potter's fault, of that much she was absolutely certain. She could've escaped had it not been for him. She knew that much. 'And the boy had the audacity to use MY curse on me!' She thought, all traces of her pain leaving her as she reflected back to the untrained, but surprisingly powerful Cruciatus curse used on her. It had caught off guard, that much was true, but the boy didn't know how to harness his hate for her. Was she lucky? She shook the thought out of her head. She was the most powerful witch in the world, superior to every magic user, besides her Master of course. She was sure that it was due to her skill with the curse.

Still, the boy proved to be troublesome. He didn't quit. He needed to be taught a lesson. And who to teach him better than she could? But, her Master, may he live forever, had strictly forbidden the boy to be hurt until he uncovered some great secret that had plagued him for years. Why was Potter so important to the Dark Lord? None of his followers could ever generate an answer that made sense. Yet, none of his followers had the audacity or even the stupidity to question the Dark Lord. They had promised to serve, and to serve faithfully until death, otherwise, the punishment would be worse than death. They knew to fear their master, not only was there a promise of death, but because they had witnessed what he would do to those that refused to obey him. Even she shivered at the sheer magnitude of his rage and the things he was capable of. She never wanted to be on the receiving end of those ministrations.

However, as maniacal as she was, Bellatrix had some form of a brain and the wherewithal to use it. Her Lord was honorable, unbeatable….. And yet, he had lost against a mere baby. Not an Alastor Moody, or a Dumbledore….but a puny child, that couldn't even be protected by his mother. His honor dictated that he destroy the boy, as an example more than anything else. But Dumbledore was continuously in the way and the boy himself proved to be extremely lucky. The boy had to have a vulnerability somewhere.

They could hardly storm Hogwarts, yet, and they didn't know where he lived; only that it was with Muggles. 'Would he then, have to take Muggle transportation home? There could be a way.' Her eyes lit up at the sudden thought that had come to her. Though she prided herself on her Pureblood ancestry, an uncle of hers had always told her to know thy enemy. That thought was only firmly entrenched in her mind when her Dark Lord had been tricked by a mere baby.

"You are dismissed Bella. Leave me. I must plan for a way to release our brothers, and you must find a way to redeem yourself to me. I will only be so lenient." The Dark Lord spoke, thoroughly distracting her from her train of thought. He hissed something and suddenly the large snake near the fireplace was awake, it's eyes, unnervingly staring right at her. To her relief, though she would never admit it, the snake simply followed her Lord out of the room and deeper into the house.

Though most of the inner circle has been captured by Dumbledore and his do-gooders, they still have a few Deatheaters that could be used, even if they were fresh out of initiation. The Dark Lord, though, probably wouldn't approve. She knew that much already. Though, on the other hand, he did not specify how she might go about redeeming herself. If she could remove a few obstacles from his path, she could easy claim the power that he offered to his favored followers. She could, perhaps, be the one elevated above all others.

She quickly stood, making sure that the Dark Lord was no longer in the room, and headed out into the hallway outside. She had seen what happened to the people that stirred as the Dark Lord was in motion. He wasn't exactly paranoid, but his skill with a wand and his arsenal of magic had reduced on unlucky person to a quivering mass of skin. A few turns and rooms later, and she stumbled across some of the newer recruits, lounging about, and fearing the Dark Lord's wrath.

"You three, we are going to take care of some business for the Dark Lord. Come with me." She spoke fast and with purpose, not allowing them to get a seed of doubt about her ability to command them. Though, to be fair, they did know much about her talent with the Cruciatus curse. Willingly, and without hesitation, they complied with her wishes. "Good, followers. If anything goes awry, I can simply blame it on their incompetence".

"Lady Bellatrix, what are we going to do for the Dark Lord?" A man, Shrivers, spoke aloud. He considered himself braver than his partners, though they had all joined the Dark Lord's cause willingly out of greed and a thirst for power.

"We, Shrivers, are going to exact some revenge for the Dark Lord. We have to be careful with our strike, and if successful, you three may be receive special recognition from the Dark Lord himself." Her answer, not truly giving any idea of the mission at hand until she could trust them, lit a fire beneath them. From the looks in their eyes, she knew that she would have no problem convincing them. Their horribly suppressed excitement told her everything she needed to know about them. Nothing would make them work harder, or follow orders better, than the opportunity to gain the Dark Lord's favor.

"We've been waiting for something like this." Shrivers said, chuckling with his friends. He had seen the rewards that the Dark Lord had given out when he was pleased with actions. The Dark Lord wanted perfection though, and in some instances it was difficult. Shrivers wasn't a powerful wizard, but he was ruthless and followed orders to a point. The Dark Lord had many uses for a man like him.

"You will pay Harry Potter." Bellatrix Lestrange whispered as her thoughts raced ahead outlining her plans and ideas to exact revenge.


	2. Return to The Dursley's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry returns to hell.... so to speak.

“I hate being here!” Harry growled in frustration as he roughly threw his trunk into a nearby corner. After enduring a nearly silent ride “home” with the Dursley’s, Harry was finally back in the smallest bedroom of Number 4 Privet Drive. The size of the pitiful room did nothing to stave off Harry’s dismal mood. He truly hated being here. The walls were a true reminder of how he’d never truly been free and on his own. Everything around him was controlled by someone else. And, because of who he was, he had to listen, to not question, and to be a good boy.

“What am I supposed to do?!” After the struggles of his tragic 5th year at Hogwarts, Harry was more than ready to simply disappear. But that was the very problem, being a Gryffindor meant that he had to have some type of courage. “But is it courage if it was already predetermined for you to do?” Harry asked aloud to himself. He didn’t receive an answer, which served to only frustrate him further.

_“These are the times that I need Mom, or Dad, or Sirius.”_ Harry thought, with the last thought bringing forth a new range of emotions from sadness to despair, but mostly a great rage. He hurt of course, and he even felt responsible for the death of his Godfather, but he had an all-consuming rage for the person that pulled the trigger, so to speak. He wanted to cause her harm.

_“But would that make me any better than any of the Deatheaters, or her,_ or _him?”_ These were the thoughts that plagued him as he had endured the last few days at Hogwarts. On the train back, he was quiet and reserved and kept his gaze to the countryside; not truly looking at anything. His thoughts had wandered to whether or not he could kill another person. His very existence, and most of the troubles in his life, stemmed from the fact that someone had _tried_ to kill him. Could he raise his wand, speak two words, and watch the green light travel across the distance to strike another person? Could he bear to see the life literally leave their eyes, and to know that it was he that had caused it? He didn’t know.

He did know that he would fight like hell to _stay_ alive. Yet, he knew, that unless he truly defeated Voldemort, he would never be able to simply live his life. Furthermore, he understood that if he were to fail in fighting Voldemort, none of his friends would survive the onslaught.

_“What would my parents think? How can I tarnish their memory by becoming a killer? They, and many others, have already been killed because of me? Does that make me a killer already?”_ With so many unanswered questions, there was plenty for Harry to ponder about. He had to come to terms with everything.

Yes, there was a prophecy. But, that very same Prophecy was made by a laughable seer named Trelawney. True, she had made one in his Third Year that had come true, but that was different wasn’t it? He knew that Voldemort believed in the Prophecy. After all, he _had_ hunted the Potters after only hearing the first few lines. That meant that he at least feared the _possibility_ that the prophecy could be true. Then again, he _had_ marked Harry in his attempt to kill him, further cementing that the prophecy had some legitimate claims.

Harry took a seat on the edge of the bed, thinking of the words that had been seared into his brain. He could never forget them. He would never _allow_ himself to forget them.

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..."_

Obviously, he was born at the end of July, but so was Neville. _“But Voldemort chose me! Why?”_ That, Harry believed, was probably the most important question to ask. Why had Voldemort chosen to mark him? What was special about him at the tender age of 1 that scared the Dark Lord so terribly?

_“No, it couldn’t have been me specifically, at least not directly. Could it have been something to do with my family? Which, I don’t even know much about to be honest.”_ There was a slim chance, a laughable one mind you, that Voldemort had simply flipped a coin and chose one family over the other. But, Harry knew that deep down inside, Voldemort was far smarter than that. He knew something about Harry that Harry didn’t seem to know himself. Who else could possibly know anything about him that he himself did not know, besides his parents of course. His first guess was immediately Hermione, but he cancelled that on the belief that she would’ve told him already. Sirius could’ve known, which meant Remus would know as well. Why had no one told him?

In that mindset, why would no one feel the need to tell them? Was it a great secret for his protection, or the protection of others? Did any of them benefit from him not knowing? It was hard to speculate out of thin air, but surely there had to be reason for the hiding of what could be important information. Were they forbidden? Did they swear an oath? That question, then, led to who would these people have faith in if told to do something against their wishes?

_“Dumbledore!”_ The name came to Harry’s mind unbidden, and yet fit perfectly.

“So Dumbledore knew, or knows, something about me. He probably told my parents, which was why they were so willing to go into hiding. Of course, being best friends, my dad would have shared all of this with his best friends. How big of a secret was this? Did Wormtail tell Voldemort, or did he even know? What’s a secret if everyone knows?” Harry spoke aloud as he stood to pace his small room. This was quite the conundrum. Dumbledore, apparently, had kept a lot of information from him, and he needed to know. It wasn’t fair.

_“I’ve lost my parents, my childhood, my happiness…but why? To that end, why should I fight? Why me, and no one else? I could leave this all behind. Apparently, I have enough money to do so. But, I will not believe that my parents have died for nothing. I need answers now.”_ Harry continued to do his pacing, feeling his magic brimming beneath the surface of his emotions. Thinking on his arrival again did nothing but serve to make him angrier.

**********

The car ride here had been insufferable. He and the Dursley's hated one another equally, that was a fact. They however, didn't seem to realize when enough was enough. Vernon had only been mid-way through his second threat before Harry gave him a glare that froze his blood. He, Harry that is, had been a ticking time bomb the past few days he had spent at Hogwarts. His relatives were the first of what would be many to feel his wrath.

"Shut up you stupid man. I do not have time to listen to your petty, pathetic, and childish rants. You say one more insult about my parents, and I will show you just how much of a freak I am!" Harry spoke, vehemently. The heat from his words made the summer temperature pale in comparison. The car seemed to get hotter by the second, the leather seats a fiery trap that made the Dursley’s squirm in order to not get burned.

"Dad --" Dudley started, but Harry roughly cut him off.

"You can shut up too. I am no longer doing any of your chores. You WILL feed me, or the Order of the Phoenix will be the least of your worries. Do I make myself clear?" Harry spoke, holding Vernon's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Now see here boy --" Vernon tried again.

"No you see here! My existence in your miserable house is the only reason you even live. Without me you're dead. Remember that the next time you think to raise your hand or your voice at me! I won’t put up with this any more." Harry spoke again, silencing his fat uncle.

Harry had stared at the man until he pulled off from the station. He had hoped that this would be the last of his arguments with his relatives. He really didn't have the patience any more. Besides, he had far more important things to worry about. The remainder of the car ride was handled in a tense silence, thankfully. Harry wasn’t sure how he’d respond if his uncle decided to speak another word to him.

All that changed in the blink of an eye. His "family" had beat a hasty retreat into the house after pulling into the driveway, leaving Harry to drag his unusually heavy trunk into the house all on his own. Maybe, just maybe, this summer would be very different than what he was used to from the Dursley’s. How difficult could a summer of no magic, no friends, no extended learning, and muggles be? _‘It’ll be just like every other boring, hot, and lonely summer.’_ Harry thought. Except, this summer, he had more information. He needed to prepare. He was going to fight, he didn’t have much choice in the matter. He did, however, have a choice in how effective he would be in a fight. The books that he nicked from the library should help, otherwise, he’d have to make a trip to Diagon Alley. He set the thought aside and continued towards to front door.

Walking into the house, he set his trunk down and turned to close and lock the door as was his habit of sorts whenever he walked into the house. Before he had completely closed the door, his internal instincts screamed at him.

_‘Duck!’_ A voice, vaguely familiar, screamed into his thoughts. Without hesitation, Harry dropped his small frame as low as he could go while still staying on his feet. He felt, more than heard, the wind rush past the top of his head. Realizing that he would be soon trapped into a corner, he side-stepped away from the door and turned to see his attacker. It was Vernon. The portly man looked livid as he clenched his right fist in his left hand. Apparently, and evident from the dent in the door, he had completely missed Harry and hit the front door. Also apparent to Harry was the fact that Vernon was livid, as he didn’t let the pain of the punch bother him too much and set his sights back onto Harry.

Harry knew he had to respond, but his wand was in his trunk. There were no Order members around, and if they were they would only get there too late to actually help him. As a last resort, he could probably use magic as long as his life was threatened, but he didn’t want to push his luck with his the current administration. He was sure he could avoid his uncle long enough to retrieve his wand, but Harry didn’t want to press his luck. Before he could truly decide on a course of action, his Uncle rushed him. Everything seemed to slow down for Harry.

The human body is incredible. The flight or fight response has been well documented by science over many years. As such, plenty of people were aware of what would happen when their body responded to an attack. Normally, the body pumps more blood, shuts down unnecessary functions and prepares to run as fast as possible, for as far as possible, and until they were safe. In another instance, the body will do the same, but instead, prepare for a fight. Normally, a 15 year old teenager would be no match for the might of a fully grown man, who was also filled with rage and adrenaline. However, the fight or flight response system did not factor in the power of magic, or the audacity of a fed up teenager, that would no longer be pushed around.

Harry barely felt his breathing become more rapid. Nor did he feel the blood pumping furiously into his legs and arms. He did however, feel the sense of peace that overcame him. He felt untouchable; a predator in his natural environment. He, inwardly, knew he wasn’t much of a fighter, but he also knew that at some point in time, one simply had to fight back. Though he was not a fighter, he was a survivor, and in some situations, his body simply reacted. His body, sensing his predicament, and still tensing from the argument in the car responded for him.

Unknowingly, Harry’s eyes seemed to glow as his side-stepped the hulk of his uncle, and calmly stuck a foot out. His uncle, completely unprepared for his nephew to respond, had no time to move out of the way. As a result he, quite surprisingly, literally flew through the air and landed face first on the staircase. Harry, hearing footsteps, turned around just in time to dodge a punch from Dudley. His cousin, more dangerous than his uncle, wisely decided against running toward him. Instead, he crept forward with his both of his fists raised.

Harry, thinking fast, took two large steps forward and faked a left punch, that, while badly thrown, forced Dudley to attempt to to dodge, only to fall in line the right hook that Harry sent his way. Fighting seemed to come naturally to the young man that wanted no more physical abuse. Dudley, surprised by the strength of the attack, even more so than the person that was attacking him, fell to the floor in a daze. Harry took a step back to keep the two males in his view and looked at his tearful Aunt.

“When they wake up, you remind them of what I did to them _without_ my wand. The next time, I will not be so lenient. I will destroy this house and everyone in it. Mark my words.” Harry spoke, still pumped from the entire ordeal. The last time he had actually got into a fist fight had been against Malfoy on the Quidditch pitch. Maybe he needed to do it more often. Magic was one thing, but it felt good to dish out some old school punishment; especially to Vernon and Dudley. He smartly grabbed his trunk, drew his wand from within and proceeded up the stairs. He was almost out of sight before he turned, and looking at his Aunt in disgust, whispered a single sentence. “You’re pathetic.”

*****

As Harry lay in bed reminiscing on his arrival, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of anger. Ron would never know just how much Harry envied the fact that he had a _family_ , while Harry had _relatives_. Ron would never understand, that while his vault wasn’t lacking, and he received attention, all he really wanted was to be appreciated, respected, and loved. It may sound like a corny idea to the outsider, but for Harry that was enough of a foundation to build a bright future upon.

Just thinking about what he hadn’t experienced, only served to anger Harry even more. Thinking of his parents led him to think about their deaths, and the person that murdered them, Voldemort. In turn, thoughts of Voldemort led to his being vanquished, only to be resurrected by the pathetic human that was Peter Pettigrew. Going down that path, as dangerous as it was, led him to remembering how he stopped Remus and Sirius from killing him, and speeding up time, to how he himself, had been instrumental in Sirius’s death.

The last few weeks at Hogwarts had passed by in a blur. He had felt as if he had been productive since the night of the Ministry. He had hardly talked to his friends, certainly, but he had studied a bit, snuck some books from the library, and had been able to practice a bit of magic as well. By practice, it had been him going through every dangerous spell in his arsenal and destroying anything that the Room of Requirement had created for him. Once done, he’s study more of the books, darker magic mind you, that the Room provided and practiced those spells until he was too weary to move any further.

What puzzled him now, as he reminisced on the past few weeks was the strange longing that he felt. Almost as if he were missing something. The feeling, should he dare to call it that, had only started once he had walked outside of Hogwarts gates. He had, at the time, only noticed a slight feeling that he couldn’t place. Now however, he was very much aware of the absence that castle usually filled. He had no idea what it meant, though he had tried to puzzle it out.

On one hand, he did feel as if Hogwarts was his home. He knew plenty of the secret passages, and certainly he had helped to protect the castle in some instances. This led him back to previous thoughts when he considered the possibility of Hogwarts being sentient, but magic couldn’t create life could it? At least, that was what he had always been told. It was too complex of a matter for his exhausted brain, so he wisely focused on his Occlumency shields that he had worked on after his rampage. He couldn’t truly afford to lose control, ever. He needed to be aware of everything around, even within the “safety” of the Dursley’s home. This thinking had led him to dusty sections of the restricted section of the library.

He had read, much to his excitement, that there was a link between your magic and the magic of other users, and with that link you can actually learn to feel the magic in others around you. Though difficult to comprehend, he had really stuck on the phrase, _“when the relation of the  magic and user are in sync, more details about the surrounding magic begin to manifest.”_ It wasn’t hard to figure out, at least to him, that once you start to figure out your own magic, you’d be able to understand magic in general. Seemingly, it appeared, that would help one with the execution of magical techniques. He wished now, that he had paid attention to his 1st year classes, and he could vaguely recall them going over the beginning principals of magic.

There had to be a link between that magic and the magic of Hogwarts and it’s surrounding areas. He simply couldn’t recall the information. There was something missing to connect the pieces.

“Hermione would certainly still have her notes.” Harry spoke aloud, startling himself with the break in the silence. The Dursley’s, strangely, were extremely quiet. Which, if he were being honest with himself was a blessing, but he didn’t trust them at all. He needed to know what they were up to at all times.

Hedwig hooted from her spot near his small desk. He had almost forgotten that he had sent her home ahead of him. She had probably sensed his mood, being one of his first true friends, and was likely concerned for him.

“I’m ok girl. Just a bit fed up with everything right now.” Harry said softly, getting off the bed walking towards the large white owl. She really was a spectacular creature, and far smarter than she should be. “I have some fighting to do soon Hedwig, and I don’t know if I’ll make it. I don’t know if I’ll even survive, and if I do survive, will I _want_ to?”

Hedwig cocked her head at an angle, staring at Harry with a deep gaze, almost penetrating him to his very core. Then, softly, she nipped at his finger.

“Thanks girl, I love you too.” Harry smiled. He decided to get some reading done. He had a few spells he wanted to look at. He was sure that he could ask Fred and George to perform a series of spells that he thought would leave him immune to the Ministry’s tracking, but he had to be sure. He refused to spend another summer bored out of his mind. He had a new purpose, and a new reason for being. In honesty though, he really didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t run and hide from his problems. Voldemort wouldn’t give him that opportunity.

For his study session, he chose the book _Battling the Adversary_ by Richard Downings. Apparently, this was one of the same books that Auror commanders studied in order to prepare for battle. Not only did it include handy tips and general “rules” for battle, but it had a host of spells that could be very effective, both short range and long range. Harry began to commit them all to memory.

In the past few days before everyone left Hogwarts for the summer break, Harry had been sparsely seen around Hogwarts. His friends, recovered and released by Madame Pomfrey, had speculated the he was simply grieving. The general population of the school, on the other hand, thought that he was up to something. Both parties were, in effect, correct. Harry was grieving, but in a constructive way. It wasn’t that he had just lost his Godfather, but that he had just lost his Godfather and he had found out the reason his parents had died while he was a child. He had, ultimately, found out that he had a much bigger role in the grand scheme of things that he had previously thought possible. The prophecy, something he had recited to himself every morning , had changed everything for him.

The first few hours in the Room of Requirement had been filled with his exploring the depth of his rage. In that time, he had seen just how small his arsenal of spells was; and he had also realized that he was rusty in some other areas. One of the first things he had done was read through some of his older Charms books he had kept in his trunk for some reason. Spell by spell he increased his knowledge and his chances of success. Though, he knew that practice in the Room was far different than an actual battle, he understood the need to get himself familiar with the spells that he was learning. Once he started with the some of books, he had, naturally, pursued further information. In some cases, knowing how the spell worked, and why it worked, helped him to use it better, and understand the strengths and weaknesses of those spells. In the few short days that he had had at his disposal, he had managed to revamp his study habits, set some summer goals, and distract himself from the pain of losing his Godfather.

Now, back amongst the muggles, Harry had to distract himself from completely destroying them. They, he had rationalized on the train, would not understand the constant strain that he was under. He would treat them with indifference. He snorted as he thought of just how long it had taken him to lose his cool with them.

_“I guess I can’t truly blame the Dursley’s. At some point, though, I knew I needed to put my foot down.”_ Harry thought, taking a break from his reading. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t even remember falling asleep, with the dying light of the sun accompanying him.


	3. Emotions Awry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deeper look into some of our characters!

# Chapter 2: Emotions Awry

That same dying light saw a bushy haired young woman restlessly pacing her bedroom, her thoughts clouded. Her bedroom, painted a bright blue, was spacious with a large queen sized bed sitting against the wall. Always a neat girl, Hermione Granger took no notice of the wall that housed bookshelves that her father had hand-built for her years ago. She also never took notice of the various pictures on all four walls. Her wall was  a visual catalogue that extended to pictures of her and her parents, to her and her best friends from Hogwarts; the walls were filled with evidence  of her growth. Even more numerous than her pictures, were her academic accolades, many of which predated her Hogwarts years.

Since a young girl, she had always been academically inclined, though not always of her own volition. With her being heavily teased and a social outcast simply because of her intelligence, not to mention her large front teeth, it had often caused some of the others kids to abandon any attempts to befriend her. Even the teachers struggled to create opportunities for her to bond with other students. She had witnessed them try a great many things, but to no effect.

Too often her mother would her find her tear-stained faced firmly pointed into a book, oblivious to the outside world. It had become so awful to witness that her parents had briefly entertained the idea of pulling her out of the public school system and hiring a personal tutor. When she had received her Hogwart’s letter in the mail, she had immediately jumped at the idea of escaping the pitifully sad and lonely world that she knew and hated. She was more than excited to starting anew elsewhere. She buzzed with the idea of having a chance to learn subjects that not many others could. She had believed that even then, she would find like-minded peoples - as this could’ve been her reason for not getting along with her former peers. Seeing her obvious excitement, and knowing that this was just the opportunity that their daughter needed, her parents had readily agreed, despite their fears of rarely having contact with their daughter. And so, she would become a witch.

Hogwarts, beautiful and frightening at the same time, was not much different than the other schools she remembered. There were still the same teasing of her academic prowess, and still nights where she had cried herself to sleep, wondering if she were good enough to have a friends. There were still days where she wanted to disappear, forever. She hid all of that from her parents of course, and put on a brave face when she went home for the holidays.

And then the troll had gotten in, and she had found herself facing the chance of death, only to have a dark-haired boy arrive to fight on her behalf. She hadn’t researched it until her fourth year, but every since that night, she had felt a bit of an attachment to the boy would later become one of her best friends.

In the magical world, she found through reading of course, it was very important when a witch or wizard saves the life of another witch or wizard. A magical bond, without any agreement, is created. The person that the bond originates from, or the person that was saved, owed the other individual a life debt. As Harry and her were bestfriends, he had directly saved her life multiple times since then, only complicating the original life debt she owed. It was to the point where she believed she could feel some of his pain at times.

The passage from the dusty tome in the library had clearly stated, _“...in the event that a witch or wizard is in danger of their life being forfeited, and another magic-user comes to their aid, a bond is created. This bond, magical in nature, is still being studied by researchers today. Indeed, it is more sacred than some marriage vows, as the would be victim becomes indebted to the savior. Furthermore, in the presence of the victim, the savior shall not come to any harm. It has been said, in some extreme cases, that the victim can feel when the savior is in danger, but this has yet to be proven. No one knows when a Life Debt, for that is what it is, is resolved.”_

She never disclosed this information to anyone. She wasn’t sure she completely understood it, and she certainly was not going to tell Harry of her suspicions. After all, he would only worry about her too much and try to find a way to break the oath. Instead she simply tried to help him as much as she could, from school related issues and the annual fight for his life, all the way to his dating life.

_“What a disaster that was.”_ She thought to herself, remembering what Harry had told her about his relationship with Cho. While she didn’t think Harry could’ve been that bad, he was a boy, and they were notorious for not understanding the simplest of signs from a girl. She knew that she had suffered enough from that herself. A part of her knew that the entirety of the male species could not be hopeless, but facts had proven otherwise so far.

On the other hand, from what she knew of Cho, the girl was chasing popularity more than anything. There had been rumors of her snogging indiscriminately throughout Hogwarts. Harry, then, had simply been another victim of hers; a convenience. That alone was enough for Hermione to never trust the girl.

_“I’m glad I put that trap on the parchment. Serves the deceitful twit right!”_ She would never let Ron know, or Harry for that matter, but she was proud of her charm, that while simple, had proven to be effective and hard to remove. Seeing Harry smile at the results made it all worth it. And if she had to, she would do it again.

Her thoughts, cheerful with memories of her best friends, quickly grew confused again as she went back to the original reason she had started pacing in the first pace. She had felt Harry get extremely upset recently, and as she didn’t have an owl or his phone number, she couldn’t contact him to make sure that he was ok. How she felt his anger was another matter on it’s own, and she did not have the time to puzzle it out. It could very well be their bond as friends, and a mixture of the Life Debt; though the tome she had read mentioned no such occurrence.

She knew that something was affecting Harry from the moment she had woken up in the Hospital Wing after the Ministry debacle. He had been sitting there for hours from the look of his clothes. His eyes had held a newfound sadness, that would have surprised anyone. On top of that, he had never looked her in the eye, and he had spoken in a resolved tone. it was almost as if he’d been recovering from the battle from himself.

_“But that couldn’t be right. From what I’ve heard and saw, he was the only student to not get hurt in the battle, even though he chased Bellatrix on his own. He’s hiding something about that as well, he has to be. He never was good at lying to me.”_

Pondering about her best friends, while an interesting task, did nothing except make her worry more, especially as she wasn’t there to help and guide them. They were like little kids at times. Being the only truly responsible one from the group, she realized that it was often up to her to make sure that they made it through their school year. Even more, as the only girl in their Golden Trio, there were those on the fringes, mainly her dorm mates, that thought it was only a matter of time before she started to date one of them.

_“That would be weird, wouldn’t it?”_ Hermione pondered to herself, quickly shaking her head at the very notion of it. Being who she was, she had clearly thought of every possibility that could abound from being best friends with two boys. In her opinion, they couldn’t be more different from one another, which made their friendship strong and powerful.

Ron, with his small emotional range, was easily dangerous as he either blew up at everything, or took everything to heart, which usually resulted in him blowing up. Because the red-haired boy got embarrassed easily, he was often the target of Draco Malfoy, a Slytherin through and through. His jealousy issues even jeopardized his relationships with her and Harry, though they always managed to fix it. In all, he was the easier friend to watch out for as he had readily available signs for when he was about to explode.

_“If the foolish boy would only grow up he could make something of himself. Honestly!”_ Hermione, just thinking about the tall red-haired, wanted to pull her hair out.

From her conversations with other girls, that was supposed to be a sign that she liked a boy, or that he liked her. And yet, she knew, deep down, that there would never be more than friendship between her and Ron. That ship had sailed over a year ago when she had entertained the idea of possibly having a mutual crush on him. Yes, he had his moments where she loved him dearly, but she had quickly realized that her friendship with him was more brotherly than anything else. Which was often met with disbelief when someone asked about them. He had potential, certainly,  but that potential was for another girl.

Her other best friend, Harry Potter, was a different story altogether. His emotions were slightly more dangerous. He didn’t realize it, but he had always been far more powerful than his friends, and his emotions directly affected the type of magic that he put out. And, from what she had seen over the years, he hadn’t truly gotten it under control. He tended to hide a lot of things when something was affecting him, not truly trusting anyone with his demons. His demons, too, were more dangerous than usual, because they often tried to kill him. He didn’t get embarrassed as Ron did, but he often tried to downplay his success. His humility was truly one of his best qualities, and he was humble about that too. Which was why it hurt her so deeply when she knew he was lying or avoiding a topic completely.

She had a slight idea of what type of background he had had, just by watching his interactions with other people, but not knowing the entire story infuriated her. She hated the muggles just based on whatever it was that they sucked out of Harry. He smiled, he was happy at times, but there was always that shadow across his face as if he were remembering something truly harsh. It was almost as if he had suffered a lifetime of pain. Then he entered the Wizarding World, where he had always been a celebrity. To his credit, he didn’t use his fame in an obnoxious way.

_“Thank Merlin! I’m not sure I could handle an egotistical Harry.”_ Hermione thought with a chuckle as she reflected. She, honestly, could not picture a Malfoy-like Harry Potter strutting throughout the halls of Hogwarts. If anything, Harry tried to stay under the radar. He consistently performed at or under what was expected of him in class, but his actions outside of class showed that he had a great grasp on magic, and that he made it look easy. He has a connection with magic that she envied, if she was being honest with herself. She may know the technical bit about a spell, but Harry knew the spell. He was instinctive in his use of magic, and his strong emotions only served to fuel him further.

Which of course, only made her furious at him for not trying; especially when she knew he had the potential. She couldn’t place all of the blame on him though, how he was raised had as much to do with who he was today than anything else.

_“Just how bad are those Muggles?”_ This was a question that had popped into her head many times, and she could never get an answer. Of course, she didn’t ask Harry directly, but she would’ve liked a clue, or two.

Ron, easy. Harry, not so much. Plenty of the girls in the school had a crush on him, but from knowing Harry, she didn’t think any was his type. After all, as a guy, he was oblivious to any and all attention from a girl. He hadn’t even noticed Ginny after all of these years, and she was said to be one of the best girls in the school.

_“Then again, if the threat of death looms over my head nearly every day, I’d be oblivious to girls too.”_ She thought, again saddened by the life her best friend had to live. He deserved better.

“No matter Harry, I’ll make sure I’m there until the end. I promise.” She spoke outloud for the first time in hours. Unbeknownst to her, a shooting star flashed high above her house, cementing her promise.

 

**********

Remus Lupin sat in the kitchen of his shabby house, idly stirring his tea, that had long since cooled. His body was there, but his mind was elsewhere. Apart from his usual shabby attire, the room that he sat in had the bare necessities for a kitchen. That is, he had a table with two chairs, a range that had long since collected dust, a cooling box that had long since been empty. Sirius had been kind enough to grant him this place free of charge years ago, and as the years had waned, so had the amount of time he put into the home.

When James and Lily had died, he had almost given up living, especially since Sirius had been quickly sent to Azkaban. He had never learned what happened to young Harry at the time, only hearing from Dumbledore that he was safe. The Ministry, of course, wouldn’t allow a werewolf to raise their savior. He had kept watch of course, after pleading with Dumbledore. Harry had never known, but there were nights where he, Remus, had watched from a distance, seeing his bestfriend in the boy every single day.

He yawned involuntarily.

He wasn’t just tired, he was exhausted. His body looked it, and his eyes told that he had had trouble sleeping for the past few days; weeks if anyone knew the truth. He’d failed again.

Not only could he not save the life of his best friend, he had let his other best friend’s son get into harm’s way again. James and Lily would never forgive him. He wouldn’t forgive himself. The Marauders were dead, and he was alone.

A flash of fire near the range had him reaching for his wand, only to toss it on the table as he saw Albus Dumbledore and his trusty Phoenix, Fawkes.

“I’d ask how you are, but I do not believe my eyes deceive me.” Albus said looking over his half-moon glasses. He surveyed the tattered furniture, the closed drapery, and the downtrodden appearance of the house, not out of disgust, but out of concern for his long time friend and one of his favorite students.

“I’m ok Albus. Or rather, I will be.” Remus responded, not looking up from the tea that he was stirring.

“Harry will need his Godfather more than ever now. I know that Sirius would have had the bond setup as such that it would pass to you upon his death.” Albus continued after a moment of silence.

“Yeah, I can feel Harry. It’s a bit weird to be honest. I’m not sure how Sirius handled it. The boy feels so many things that it’s hard to keep track of them.” Remus said with a slight smirk. “James was the same way.”

The two wizards sat in further silence, reminiscing on a bygone past. Fawkes was quietly preening himself on Dumbledore’s shoulder, an act that belied the intelligence and power of the creature.

“I only came to check on you. Not as your past Headmaster, but as a friend. You have suffered most severely in these wars, similar to Harry.” Dumbledore spoke quietly.

“I can’t be a father to him Albus!” Remus snarled in response, immediately ashamed that he had yelled at the aged wizard. He opened his mouth to apologize but was cut off by the man across from him.

“Harry, at this stage, doesn’t need a father. He needs a mentor, a friend, and someone to support him vigorously. He has Ron and he has Hermione, certainly, but some of the issues that he will face will be beyond them. I’m afraid that there will be times that he will not trust himself to trust them enough. And in some cases, they won’t know how to help him anyway. He’ll need you.” Dumbledore spoke. It was clear to Remus that the old man had been thinking deeply about this.  

“What about you? I’m not Merlin, I can’t raise an Arthur!” Remus spoke, still heated. He sobered up quickly as Fawkes trilled a soft note.

“No, we cannot be Merlin. But we can be there for the young man that holds a special place in all of our hearts. We can be there for the young man that has possibly saved all of our lives at one point or another. Harry is going to be reaching his magical maturity soon, and you know what type of experiences that provided for yourself, James and Sirius. As powerful wizards, it was painful, was it not?” Dumbledore asked, seeing Remus sink into himself. “Harry is even more powerful. You’ve seen the results of his MAXIM test. It was everything that I could do to hide them from the Ministry.”

“They’re usually on file right? Almost to the point of public access?” Remus asked. Still thinking of the incapacitating pain of his magical maturation. It was not an easy process. He would, if being honest, place the pain right up there with his very first transformation after he was bitten as a boy.

“Can you be there for him Remus? I fear that you will be far more readily available to him than I would. The Ministry, Hogwarts, and my other duties are pulling me in many directions at once. This war will be far more vicious than the last, and I fear that no one is truly prepared for the horrors. We’ve become too complacent.”

“I’ll be there Albus. I can’t let Harry down again.” Remus spoke, looking his old professor in the eye.

“That is all that I ask. Our work will not be in vain. I believe in young Harry Potter.” Dumbledore spoke, finally standing and coming over to pat Remus on the shoulder. “I miss Sirius as well. He was a good man, and an even better friend.”

“That he was. I can’t believe he is gone.” Remus spoke, fighting back the tears he hadn’t even realized were building up.

“Mourn for him if you must, but do not forget to celebrate the life that he led. His rebellious nature, his compassion, his trustworthiness, and his love for those dear to him. He left this world in one of the only ways acceptable to him; fighting alongside comrades and protecting his Godson. That is an amazing death.” Dumbledore spoke. Without a sound between the two of them, Fawkes fluttered over, landed on Dumbledore’s shoulder and vanished in a flash of fire.

“Thank you Albus.” Remus spoke again, a crack in his voice as his emotions finally overwhelmed him. he didn’t care, he would mourn his friend, and celebrate the life that he was able to live, despite it not being the best. He let the tears fall freely now, as he knew that he would soon have to help Harry through this same rut. Remus knew, deep down, that it would only get more difficult before it got any easier. The man sat in his chair, silently shaking as his memories sent on a trip in which he relived all of his fondest moments with his two bestfriends, who were more like brothers. He sat there wrecked with grief, sadness, and happiness all at once with the room as silent as a grave.

 

**********

Upon leaving an emotional Remus, Dumbledore made his way to the Burrow where the Weasley clan was gathered, minus Percy of course. The young man had still failed to make amends with his family over the nasty dispute, and while it hurt his parents a great deal, it hurt his siblings more, as they truly valued the depth of their family bond. Ginny in particular needed the guidance of her older brother, as she had always looked up him in her younger days. Even he himself had been unsuccessful in getting the young man to talk to his family. With an internal sigh, Dumbledore knocked on the front door of the Burrow, inciting a flurry of movement from within as wands were hastily drawn and frantic whispers were heard. One could never be too careful, despite the numerous wards that would alert them of any enemies, the family was a marked one for being close to himself and to Harry Potter; they were taking no chances.

“Who is it?” A woman asked, Molly, Dumbledore knew instantly.

“It is I, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.” Albus replied with a smile. He could feel her relax on the other side of the door, but hoped that she followed through with protocol.

“Prove it!” She spoke again after some length.

“I performed the wedding for yourself and Arthur, as well as blessed all of your children.” Dumbledore spoke again, smiling at the memories.

“Everyone knows that. You get one more chance mister and then I won’t hold back.” Molly spoke again.

“What everyone does not know was the copious amounts of Firewhiskey that you consumed before your wedding and that I had to magically cure you so that you could walk the aisle. They also don’t know that the headache that you had afterwards caused you to -” Dumbledore spoke at length, while Molly decided to cut him off by opening the door.

“You promised to keep that a secret Albus!” Molly said frantically, while the Headmaster could see over her head and the interest that her children were showing after hearing so much of the story already. The fact that she cut Dumbledore off, let the group know that this was a serious matter for their mother, one that they would have to find out someway, somehow.

“Alas, in my advanced age, you must forgive me. Why I started the story and could not help but continue to give it it’s full justice.” Dumbledore spoke, while winking at Ron, Ginny and the twins who had put the wands back into their various hiding places. A great laugh was shared, clearing up the last dregs of the tense atmosphere. Ginny was the next to speak out as she caught sight of the beautiful bird riding atop Dumbledore’s shoulders.

“Oh my Merlin, Fawkes, you get more and more beautiful every time I see you.” She gushed, causing the powerful creature to flash-fire from Dumbledore to the table in front of Ginny, allowing the girl to pet and coo all over. The boys rolled their eyes, while making gagging sounds behind their sister’s back, though they stopped immediately stopped once she sent a glare at them. Sobered immediately, the boys beat a hasty retreat as they knew the full scope of their sister’s anger.

Making idle talk, Dumbledore stuck around until it was he and Molly standing alone. There, he got into the actual reason for his visit, to check up on his favorite family. Not only were the Weasley’s extremely loyal and supportive of him, but they embodied what Pureblood families should really be. They were humble, quiet, strong and reserved. Sure, the famous Weasley temper had a fierce reputation, but they typically displayed it only when necessary. They weren’t power hungry or negatively influential such as the Malfoys, but they gave their all. That was why, he’d found a way to fund the tuition for all of their children. He would’ve paid for it himself, but those types of things were usually frowned upon. Molly would never know it, but Arthur had been “persuaded” by Dumbledore to take back the payments that they had been making on tuition. Persuaded, as in Dumbledore hadn’t presented any alternatives for Arthur to seek.

“How are they doing Molly?” Albus asked finally, both knew who he spoke of. Molly gave a great sigh and began to busy herself around the house; adjusting things that did not need adjustment, cleaning those that already sparkled.

“They won’t talk to me Albus, about any of it. I can see some of the pain that they went through, I can see how they jump at the sound of someone apparating. When you knocked on the door, they had their wands out faster than even I did! even Fred and George don’t joke about Ron and Ginny as much as they used to, and no one is safe with them.” Molly said, her voice rising an octave as her emotions got the better of her.

“Lemon Drop?” Albus asked, pulling a bag of his favorite treat from within his robes. He smiled softly when she took one. “They are young, but they are some of the bravest students that I have ever encountered. They will prevail over this, there is no doubt in my mind about that.”

“They shouldn’t have to be brave Albus!” Molly spoke. Dumbledore could tell that the Lemon Drop was starting to affect her. All of his Lemon Drop had a very subtle mixture of a Calming Drought mixed within, not that he would admit that to anyone.

“Would you rather them be weak and afraid for the war that is to come? Would you rather them be terrified to defend themselves? If worst comes to worst, would you want them to go down without a fight?” Dumbledore started, drawing his aura around him to make his presence felt. He was ashamed of it, certainly, but it was one of the lesser crimes that he had committed against those that he cared about. He let his magical presence recede to a small trickle, ever so pleased that he had learned to mask his true magical signature.

“But Albus I can’t let them be hurt!” Molly spoke. This time, it was Dumbledore that sighed.

“Molly, I had a son once. A powerful, intelligent son, and I loved him fiercely. So fiercely in fact, that I made the error of protecting him too much, and not allowing him to learn how to protect himself. Want to know what happened?” Dumbledore asked, but continued without waiting for a response. “He died. He was murdered by a group of evil wizards for no other reason than that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wasn’t there to protect him Molly, and he did not know how to protect himself!” Dumbledore spoke, the twinkle in his turning into a furious spark.

“I never knew.” Molly breathed out. Dumbledore, being his age, had never let on about his life before he was as the public knew him. “I’m so sorry Albus.”

“It was a very long time ago. Your children have already decided to fight against the darkness that threatens to swallow the world. That means that they are targets, whether we like it or not. Are you going to let them be target practice?” Dumbledore asked, and upon seeing Molly shake her head for a negative, gave her a brief smile.

“What are you suggesting, that we make them into some sort of army?” Molly asked, the very notion of it difficult for her to bear.

“No, not exactly. They were a part of the group that Harry created last year in response to the Ministry, they have already declared themselves, as friends first, to protect one another. Harry, whether he likes it or not, is likely going to be the general at the head of this army. They, then, are likely to be his lieutenants. They are loyal to him, even in their differences, and even when they butt heads. He, too, is loyal to them, in a fierce manner. I don’t want to make them into an army, but there is not a doubt in my mind that they need to be prepared for the roles that they themselves have chosen.” Dumbledore spoke.

“Are you going to train them?” Molly asked.

“Yes, but not all the time. We have various members of the Order that will circulate through and teach them as many skills as they possibly can for the duration of the summer. I have, in anticipation of this conversation, received Arthur’s signature to waive the Underage Restriction for the summer.” Dumbledore replied, hoping that he did not get Arthur in trouble when he got off of work.

“Are you going to tell them or should I?” She, in all honesty, was unsure of how they would respond.

“I think, for this time, that a surprise would be better for them. I’ll have the first trainer here bright and early in the morning.” Dumbledore responded, while pulling out his weird pocket watch and taking a quick glance at it. “Molly, forgive me, I must be going. Have a pleasant afternoon, and tell Arthur that I will connect with him soon.”

“Be safe Albus.” Molly spoke, her voice pleading. In response, Dumbledore simply smiled in her direction and exited through the kitchen door.

Still in the kitchen, Molly had not her children make it fully up the stairs. Hidden on the first landing, they had heard everything discussed between Dumbledore and their mother, and most of what they had learned still left them in shock. After some very handy wand work from George, they were able to freeze the squeaky steps and return to Ron’s small bedroom.

“It sounds like it’s getting pretty bad out there?” Ginny spoke up first, taking a seat on Ron’s bed after shoving a pile of laundry to the floor. At Ron’s indignant look, Ginny merely stuck her tongue out at her older brother.

“Well, one good thing came from this my dear brother.” Fred spoke aloud. Ron and Ginny shared confused looks while George merely grinned from his spot near the door. Neither of them spoke again until Ron could not stand the silence any longer.

“Will you just say it already?!” Ron spoke at nearly a yell.

“Dumbledore, in all of his infinite wisdom, just convinced mother to allow us a bit more freedom.” George replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. It took a moment, but Ron’s eyes finally lit up with sudden ideas. Ginny, on the other hand, was quietly stifling her giggles at her brother’s actions.

A few more words were exchanged between siblings before Ron was left to his own devices in his room. His smile faded, and his expression turned thoughtful, which was not the typical facial expression that he made. Yes, his mother had been kindly berated by Dumbledore about her handling of them, and how it could negatively affect them, but the part of the conversation that stood out most to him had been about his best friend.

_“My bestfriend is going to have to fight, whether he likes it or not? What is that supposed to mean? Harry has already been through so much!”_ Ron thought with a bit of a bitter attitude.

The Weasleys were poor, and in some cases that was an understatement. His mother would say that they were rich in spirit, and that being so rich in spirit meant more than any number of Galleons and Sickles. To Ron, that sounded like an excuse. Everywhere he looked, everyone else was well off, with seemingly wasteful intentions with their money. It wasn’t that he wanted his family to be rich, but that he had never owned anything for himself. Everything for him had come from one of his brothers and had been altered by his mom at any available opportunity. Even his shoes were once Fred’s. Some of his clothes, while new, were still hand me downs. He was frustrated with it, and sometimes he showed that in his actions and his attitudes.

He and his family prided themselves on not being like the rest of the Purebloods that they knew of. He felt they were compassionate, spirited people. He just wished that they could do more, and buy more. Even Harry, who didn’t know of his Wizarding heritage until he was 11, had more money than his family did. It made no sense to him! He loved his bestfriend, but hated the popularity that he received, the attention, and the idolization. Deep down, Ron was sure that Harry hated it, but on the other hand, Ron could only see that everything seemed to happen to Harry. He, Ronald Weasley, wanted some of the fame and attention as well. And then another subject was Hermione!

_“That girl is bloody mental!"_ Ron thought with more truth than mirth. His father had once told him that he needed to marry a strong woman that was outspoken but was sensible enough to listen to the man when necessary. From what Ron could see of his parent’s marriage, his mother was in charge of the relationship. On the other hand though, he had noticed when his mother deferred to his father on matter of importance. He didn’t know if he found Hermione attractive, but her only friends were himself and Harry, so it was likely that she would choose between them. He did not think that she wanted to date the emotional being that was Harry, so that left him.

Sure, they argued a lot, but he reasoned that people only argued when they were truly attracted to one another. Using so many emotions with one person would indicate that there were more emotions likely stored within the person. If he could make her like him, he’d be headed in the right place. He wasn’t worried, as he’d heard from his brothers about women that played hard to get, but really wanted the man to work hard for them. He did, though, notice others girls around the school that may have been eying him in the hallways. If Hermione didn’t work out, he could always make sure that he had other options and did not have to rely on her.

With his thoughts and confusion settled, Ron settled down to play himself on his chessboard. He never thought to pay attention to the nudging in the back of his head, that would signified the emergence of his conscious.

 

 


	4. Misfortunes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad day for our Hero.

**Chapter 3: Misfortunes**

 

He had been laying in his bed when there was a knock on his door and his aunt poked her head into the room. He hadn’t been doing too much, thankfully, and for once he had been fully clothed as well. There were a few books lying about as he had started reading earlier in the morning upon being awakened by the Sun streaming into his face. He was upset that he had fallen asleep, but not too upset about the amount of rest that he had received. He had almost instantly berated himself, and then immediately after, started to berate himself for berating himself. It had almost given him a headache.

His aunt stood in his doorway and observed his pitifully small room. Ages ago, he had stumbled into their room, and made the realization that his bedroom was only a bit bigger than their closet. It was likely more suited for an office, as opposed to a place where a person may live and spend most of their time. He saw her nose visibly flare while scanning the large cage that held Hedwig. She glanced over his spellbooks as if they didn’t exist before sparing him a quick glance.

“I thought you might want some lunch, and maybe some new clothing. We’re heading out, and you’re coming with us.” She finally spoke, not truly looking him in the eye. It was as if she was torn between commanding him and asking him. “Please.”

The last word surprised Harry a great deal. His aunt had _never_ asked him to do anything. She simply told him, and simply expected him to comply. Usually he did. He almost didn’t have a response for her this time. He simply nodded his head and got himself ready for a trip out, making sure he had his wand tucked up his sleeve.

In the car, Harry surveyed the people in the car with him. They were quiet, but Harry had grown up learning to pay attention to most things around him, especially the people. To him, it was almost as if they were screaming.

Dudley, to his right, was incensed, but excited over the fact that there would be food soon. If one looked closely, they would see the small bruise forming on his left cheek from the punch that Harry had scored. It looked like someone had tried to cover it with make up. From his position though, Harry could clearly see just how bad of a job the person had done. He didn’t feel sorry for his cousin. In fact, Dudley had deserved it. He was the neighborhood bully, and no one truly stood up against him. It was about time someone showed him that they weren’t afraid of him. He wasn’t much of a threat now, probably reevaluating the idea of picking on his smaller cousin for so long.

Harry turned his attention to his aunt, sitting in the passenger seat. She was quiet, as usual. For some reason, Harry hated her more than the other two. It was probably because of the combination of her being his mother’s sister, and still treating him as if he were a burden. There was no respect nor shared loved between them. She had never raised her hand towards him, but she had never stopped her husband or fat son from doing so. It was almost as if she hated him, but for the most part he was simply a child. He had no control over his parents dying, nor him being sent to live with them. If he had it his way, he’d disappear for good. The most he thought about it, the more he realized that she was an ugly woman. Not just physically, though her horse-like features did nothing to help in that regard. But as a person, more so as a mother _and_ his aunt, she had let a child be abused as if it were a ritual. She was weak.

Vernon, on the other hand, was still going to be a thorn in his side. The man was stubborn to a fault and did not heed warnings. He felt as if everything should be in his power, and he despised everything magical. For some reason, the very existence of Harry seemed to offend him. Harry knew, without a doubt, that Vernon would not forget the humiliation that Harry had inflicted upon him when they had arrived at the home. He would want revenge. Harry had to remind himself that he had to stay aware, and keep his wits about him. He needed to have his wand on him at all times. Vernon was a stupid man, but he was ruthless; a dangerous foe.

_‘How can I defeat Voldemort, if I can barely get away from these Muggles? And Voldemort throws magic!’_ Harry thought to himself. _“Whose idea was this trip? Vernon hates me, Dudley is hungry, and Petunia pretends that I don’t exist. Could my threat have made her change her mind?’_ He wasn’t sure, but something didn’t feel right about this entire trip.

His various escapades at Hogwarts had honed in him the simple idea of trusting his own instincts, despite what he could physically see around him. Even in matters as simple as deciding which route to take to class, he followed his instincts. Right now, they were _screaming_ at him; almost as if they were physical manifestations of a real voice.

_“I’m safe as long as I’m with my aunt though right?”_ Harry thought to himself. From what Dumbledore had told him, he was protected by his mother’s sacrifice, by her love. Dumbledore had also told him that because of that protection, he would not have to worry about Deatheaters or Voldemort, because it would hurt them to try to hurt _him_. Harry was sure that Dumbledore wasn’t in the wrong, after all Quirrel, with Voldemort attached to him, had burned to ashes at Harry’s mere touch. But, he was equally sure that Voldemort would have some way around it all, or at the very least, a way to get his followers to be able to attack. Harry wasn’t sure if it were the Dark Mark or simple ill intentions that triggered the protection. If it were the latter, shouldn’t the Dursley’s have been unable to cause him any sort of pain? Or, was it because of their shared blood that allowed them to actually harm him?

_“My blood!”_ Harry thought instantly. His memories automatically took him back to the time after the Triwizard Tournament, and the ritual that Voldemort used to bring himself back to life. _"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son! Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed, you will revive your master. Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."_ He himself had been the cause of Voldemort’s return. As his enemy, specifically the one enemy that he could not turn, taking his blood broke that protection that he once had. Indeed, immediately after being resurrected, Voldemort had _physically_ touched his scar, inciting far more pain than he knew was possible.

“ _So I’m not safe then. Or rather, I’m not as safe as I used to be.”_ Harry asked. Now that the world knew that Voldemort had returned, he had gotten the Prophet delivered to him only once so far this summer, he was sure that the Dark Lord would no longer be acting in the shadows. He no longer had a reason to hide from the public. But Voldemort was a man of immense pride, and a defeat, especially at the hands of a babe with no magical talent. Voldemort craved revenge.

_BOOM!_

It all happened in slow motion. Harry felt a spike in the magic around him, heard the concussive boom, and felt the car seemingly levitate in the air. The Dursley’s couldn’t even get a scream out before another _BOOM_ was heard a second wave of energy hit the car and blew it several meters away. Harry lost count of the number of rolls that the vehicle took once it finally hit the ground as he faded in and out of consciousness. Before he slipped fully though, he heard the maniacal laughter of the one person he hated more than Voldemort: Bellatrix.

Harry woke with pain seemingly coming from everywhere in his body. A quick check brought a sigh of relief that he could feel no broken bones. The car was upside down with smoke fogging his vision of the outside world. He knew that at least Bellatrix was likely to still be around, but he wasn’t sure on whether or not she’d bring back-up with her. The car, empty, let Harry know that the Dursley’s were no longer in it; whether they were alive or not was a completely different matter altogether. With Bellatrix still around, he could not waste too much time on checking the surrounding area, he’d just have to hope for the best. Outside of his other pains, Harry noticed that he did not feel any unusual pain in his scar, which meant that Voldemort was not around. Distantly though, he could hear screams of the various people in the area as the clash of spell-fire created more vibrations in the ground beneath the car.

Harry reached down, or up, from his point of view, and unclicked his seat belt, ever so thankful that he had always worn one whenever he was in the car. Bracing himself for the short drop to the ground, Harry nearly landed himself on a sharp piece of metal that had been pushed into the car. A few inches more to the right, and the world wouldn’t have had to worry about the Boy-Who-Lived. He pushed those thoughts into the back of his mind before they got him killed; there was no use in pondering over death, when his entire life had seemingly already been planned out for him. Even worse, knowing the type of animal that Bellatrix was, Harry was reasonably certain that she was still around. He didn’t think that he had been unconscious long, and she wasn’t the type of adversary to allow time for an opponent to recoup. As he crawled out of the vehicle, further scraping and scratching his arms and chest, Harry thought of a plan of action.

He did not know how to Apparate. Calling the Knight Bus would be stupid and only allow for more innocents to be involved. Further, he did not know how to make a Portkey, and he did not know how to send a message to Dumbledore letting him know about the trouble. It was he and his wand versus an unknown number of enemies hell bent on killing him. It was with that thought that he knew what he’d do; he’d fight, at least until an opening appeared.

With his list of options short, he crouched low behind the car so that he could see where the Deatheaters were. Realizing that the smoke wasn’t the only thing that was blurring his vision, Harry mentally slapped himself on the forehead in realization that he had dropped his glasses. They were a true handicap for him as he could hardly see if he didn’t have them firmly attached to his face. As quietly as he could he reached back into the vehicle, gloriously finding his glasses in one piece. He had just put them onto his face when he felt the tip of a wand pressed behind his ear, and a rough voice speak quietly.

“Don’t move.” The voice was male, the wand indicated him a wizard, and seeing as he hadn’t introduced himself, he was likely a Deatheater.

Harry was not ready for the rest of the Voldemort’s posse to know that he was still alive, so he ran quickly through his options. He was sure that the man knew who he was, and had likely been sent over to see if he remained alive. He was also sure that the man was inexperienced, as he had not heard his voice before and he had run into every member of Voldemort’s inner circle. _‘Rookie then.’_ Harry thought grimly. Rookies were prone to rookie mistakes. _‘I’ve just got to distract him and get him to make a mistake. People make mistakes when they feel like they’re in power right? Voldemort does it all the time.’_ Harry thought.

“I give up. Please don’t hurt me!” Harry said quietly, hoping the man fell for the ruse. He did. Harry felt the slight motion behind him that would indicate that the man had shifted a bit closer to him. As soon as the man stopped moving Harry reacted. Most spells that could be used in this instance did not have specific wand movements to successfully use them. Even more so, he had realized not too long ago that most wizards did not have a great arsenal of short range spells, and were effectively weakened if one closed the distance. Most wizards did not know how to fight without a wand, and they generally gave up if you remove the wand from the equation. A neat trick if the Muggle world wanted to overrun that magical world.

To neutralize the threat of the wand and the man’s advantage behind him, Harry quickly pivoted on his left foot with his right elbow extended outward and upward under the arm of the Deatheater behind him. Caught off guard, the man’s wand was forced upward with such force that he did not even get the chance to mutter a spell. His eyes lit up in surprise as Harry completed his pivot with a left hook to his nose. There was a squirt of blood from the man’s nose before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he dropped heavily to the ground, unconscious. Upon a further look, Harry recognized the man, no more than 19 years of age, as a former Hogwarts student.

_‘Voldemort must be getting desperate if he’s recruiting that young.’_ Harry thought morbidly. There wouldn’t be much left of several generations if Voldemort had his way.

It was still quiet after the brief encounter with the young Death Eater. Harry, full of adrenaline, was trying to decide on a course of actions. From what he could see around the neighborhood that the attack had been staged in, it looked fairly affluent. In the middle of the day, it was unlikely that anyone would be home, but Harry had been certain he had glimpsed a few faces peering out of windows in order to see what the noise was. Further, he could hear the pained crying of those unfortunate souls that just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. One such cry was coming only several feet to his left, and Harry reluctantly approached, dreading what he would see.

Still crouched, he got his first look at the victim as he rounded the car, careful to keep any eye out for anyone approaching his position. It was a man. He did not recognize him, and for that he breathed a sigh of relief. Harry stood completely still, torn between wanting to help the man, and wanting to make sure the Deatheaters didn’t locate him. In the end, his compassion won out and he found himself kneeling next to the man.

“Are you a doctor?” The man asked, startling Harry with the suddenness of his speech. The man didn’t give him time to answer. “You.. too young to be a doctor.” He finished his sentence by coughing up blood. Harry hadn’t the slightest idea of what he was supposed to accomplish here. He had no medical training, and he didn’t truly know any healing spells either. He did, however, know that the jagged pieces of metal sticking through the man’s torso were no good. It was likely that this man would die.

“What’s your name?” Harry asked, hoping to distract the man.

“Ro-ro..” The man started, struggling to speak. “M-my name is R..oger.”

“Roger, I’m Harry.” Harry didn’t really know what to say to someone that was dying. He had never had a chance to say a true goodbye to his parents or to Sirius. Or to Cedric for that matter. Death was something that he had grown up with, and expected. In his earlier years with the Dursley, it had become more of a dream in order to escape the hell that he had grown up in. Now, here with a man that he didn’t know, he felt a kinship. Here was a man that truly had no choice in whether or not he would die, or when.

“Do you believe in fate Roger?” Harry asked quietly, not truly looking at the man, but trapped in his own thoughts.

“I – I suppose so.” The man responded, still grimacing in pain.

“I do as well. Sometimes. We don’t always seem to have a choice do we? Bloody madness is what is all is. It’s frustrating too. I can’t save your life Roger. You’re going to die. Do you have family?” Harry spoke. He could see the reality of the situation truly sinking into the man at his words.

“Wife dead. My- my young daughter Alivia. She’s 12 now, so beautiful and so smart. She just came home from boarding school. Sprouting funny stories about some boy named Harry Totter, Rotter, or Potter. One of those has to be it. Who – who will protect her when I’m gone?” Roger responded, the length of his spiel draining even more of his fading energy. The faraway look in his eyes kept him from noticing the start that Harry gave at the convenience of his Alivia coming from a “boarding school” and spouting nonsense about a boy possibly named “Harry Potter”. Chances were, Alivia went to Hogwarts, and had just recently finished up her first or second year at Hogwarts. If he made it out of his own predicament, he’d have to ask Dumbledore about the young girl.

“I can take away the pain Roger. You will never have to hurt again. I can – I can protect your daughter too Roger.” Harry spoke, slowly drawing his wand. Roger’s eye widened at the sight of it. His daughter was definitely a witch.

“Wha—what’s your name son?” Roger asked, his eyes traveling from Harry’s wand to his face, squinting as if Harry wasn’t crouched a mere foot away.

“My name is Harry Potter.” Roger nodded as if he had known the entire time.

“Tell my daughter that I love her, and that I just wasn’t strong enough. Tell her that her mom and I are wa—watching her every single day…” Roger trailed off, as his chest started to heave, and his face contorted in pain. Harry, not knowing what to do, put a hand on the man’s chest. He didn’t noticed the golden light that flashed quickly from his hand to Roger’s body. He did notice the look of relaxation crossing Roger’s face, and the way his eye lit up as if seeing a dream come to life before his very eyes. Harry did notice Roger’s mouth moving almost inaudibly, and moved his head closer to that of Roger to catch his dying words.

“T-thank you Harry Potter.” Harry didn’t cry as Roger took his last shuddering breath. He didn’t cry as he passed a hand over the man’s face to close his eyes. He didn’t cry when he found a picture of Alivia, stained with the blood of her father. This was no time for tears. He had to keep moving if he wanted to survive.

There were still the screams of the dying, and the heavy silence of the dead. He could literally feel the weight of their deaths crashing into him, making him lightheaded and blurring his vision. He mustered up all of his skills at Occlumency in order to fight it off. This was the wrong place to pass out, he would not go down without a fight.

“Avada Kedavra!” A male voice spoke, breaking Harry out of his stupor. With a response time enhanced by Quidditch and survival instincts honed by being exclusively chased by the darkest wizard in the last century, Harry immediately rolled out of the way, forward and to his left. His roll, while capable of saving his life, was uncoordinated and only served to offer him fresh scrapes and bruises as he landed on the pieces of glass from the multiple cars in the area. He suppressed a groan as he looked toward the man that had sent the spell at him in the first place. This time there were three of them, slightly spread out and all brandishing their wands.

He immediately felt his blood heat up. Before him, standing there in all of her maniac glory was Bellatrix Lestrange. She was the only one of the three that hadn’t work a mask or the usual Deatheather garb. In fact, a small part of his brain noted that he had never seen her with her face hidden, which would mean that she was extremely proud to serve Voldemort and wanted the world to know it.

“O’Neil, wake Shrivers up. Useless fool is lucky that I don’t kill him!” Bellatrix commanded. She had her wand drawn but not pointed at Harry at the time being. On the other hand, the third Deatheater had his wand pointed at Harry’s heart. Harry wasn’t sure if the man would fire off a spell if started to stand up from his crouch.

“To hell with it, I’m not going to die without a fight!” Harry muttered quietly before slowly standing to his full height. He tried to ignore the scratches, and the blood leaking from a scrape above his right eye. Instead he focused on whether or not he could draw his wand fast enough to get a spell off. Luckily, though, the man didn’t fire a spell. That meant that Bellatrix was in charge of this mission and the man wouldn’t attack without her say so. That could be useful in the near future.

In short order O’Neil had woken Shrivers up and healed his broken nose. The dried blood remained, and the once unconscious look was replaced with a look of sheer murder as he noticed Harry standing their watching him smugly.

“How’s the nose? I tried to get you to look like your ugly master when I smashed it. Though, his nose just may be one of a kind.” Harry taunted. He figured that at best, he could get them distracted with anger, and force them to make a mistake. He did not expect to Shrivers to glance at Bellatrix and receive a slight nod in response and raise his wand in a single motion.

“Crucio!” The man spat. Harry clenched his jaw shut and forced himself to remain on his feet and fight the darkness that was threatening to overtake him again. He would not give them the satisfaction of a scream. The spell ended with the man gazing at Harry incredulously.

“My uncle punches harder than that, coward.” Harry responded, surprised that his voice held a strength that his body didn’t. Shrivers looked to cast the spell again, when Bellatrix spoke out.

“No. Let us show him the futility of opposing our Master! Bring the fat one.” Bellatrix stated as she fingered her wand while looking at him with a curious expression. She was too demented to say that she was impressed by his lack of response to the Cruciatus Curse, but the look in her spoke that she was measuring him in a new way. Harry didn’t like that. His ears perked up as the still unnamed Deatheater moved out of view and returned levitating a bloody Vernon Dursley. The man was still alive and foaming at the mouth from anger, but Harry didn’t think that his Uncle understood the seriousness of this situation.

“You will unhand me you freak!” Vernon bellowed. Bellatrix eyed him with a smirk before drawing her left hand back and slapping Vernon hard across the face, making the large man stumble.

“Shut up you fat Muggle.” Bellatrix stated. Vernon regained his footing with an angry look on his face. Harry had seen this look before, and knew that at this moment Vernon was going to be hurt badly.

“You crazy bitch!” Vernon yelled before attempting to rush Bellatrix with his mass. She let him take two steps before she flicked her wand.

“Immobulus. Silencio. Reducto.” Harry watched with silent rage as his Uncle was frozen in mid-stride, silenced, and had his left leg shattered from the brutal force of the Reducto. His face instantly turned a deeper shade of red as the veins in his neck flexed as he attempted to scream out. “O’Neil, give this imbecile a taste of what real wizards are made up of.”

Harry watched as O’Neil looked at Vernon, and raised his wand.

“Crucio!” Harry tried to turn his gaze away from the hurtful sight of his Uncle. Though he hated the man with every fiber of his body, this was no way for a defenseless Muggle to be tortured. His mind raced, thinking of all of the times he had been under that very same spell, and the feeling of a thousand hot knifes repeatedly stabbing his entire body.

He remembered all of the times that he had screamed out loud hoping for a quick death in order to escape the pain. He remembered all of the times he felt as if the pain would never end. He also remembered the taste of the potions given to him to combat the curse, but whoever had made the potion had likely never been submitted to a curse from Voldemort.  Harry stood there, looking through eyes that weren’t truly seeing. Unknowingly providing his magic with a reason to spike. He was angry. He didn’t even physically react when the other two Death Eaters joined the first at Bellatrix’s command. His Uncle had slipped in and out of conscious, and had yet to make a sound. Yet, his previous wounds from the car crash were leaking blood at a rapid manner, and the thrashing on the ground of glass only served to offer him new wounds.

Suddenly time slowed down and Harry’s hand flew to his wand, or more accurately, Harry’s wand met his hand in motion. As the two met, Harry aimed the duo at the huddle of Deatheaters who had seemingly forgotten about him.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry yelled out feeling his magic _push_ through his wand. Instead of simply disarming the group, the power of the spell knocked them all off their feet and several meters away from Harry. He immediately rushed to his Uncle, but the glazed over eyes told Harry everything that he needed to know, his Uncle was dead, and likely had been for several moments prior. Harry’s attention turned as he noticed the Deatheaters getting to their feet and starting to spread out. He was outnumbered and going against dangerous foes with a limited arsenal of spells, despite the rushed research he’d done at the end of the school year. He knew that he had to keep moving if he wanted to survive.

“Avada Kedavra!” Bellatrix yelled out, forcing Harry to dive out of the way with very little grace. _“If I have to keep dodging these spells, I may land on something and kill myself! That’ll be a story Boy-Who-Lived committed suicide as he jumped to avoid a killing curse..”_ Harry thought quickly as he banished some debris towards the general direction of the Deatheaters. He knew that of the 4 Deatheaters, Bellatrix was by far the more powerful, in some ways he felt as if he could feel her power in comparison to the others. Though, it could also be because he had seen the destruction that some of her spells had caused the surrounding areas.

“Stupefy! Reducto! Expelliarmus! Incarcerous!” Harry yelled, sending a barrage of spells at the closest Deatheater to him, the man Bellatrix had called Shrivers. The stunner was shielded, though some of the concussive force of the following spell blew through the shield in order to let the next two spells find their mark. _“That’s one down!”_ Harry thought. He knew that he would have to keep the other three Deatheaters distracted so that they didn’t free their comrade. It would be no good for them to keep waking one another up.

“Is that all you got Potter! I have been trained by my Master exclusively! I know spells that would make you beg for your mother! I know spells that --” Bellatrix’s rant was cut off as found that she had to dodge the body of her fallen partner. While she managed to move, Harry did find great satisfaction in the sickening crunch that the man’s body produced. If he had to guess, he would image that it would be very difficult for him to join the fight again, or any fight for that matter.

Tactically, the Deatheaters, didn’t know how to fight as a team. Harry noticed that they never grew wise to the idea that could easily surround him and force him to fight the battle on three sides. Instead, the two younger men were looking at Bellatrix for directions, clearly having never been on this side of a battle.

“Attack you fools! Don’t just stand there!” Bellatrix spat out as she shot another Cruciatus curse that went wide of Harry.

O’Neil started waving and flicking his wand and sending bits and pieces of the rubble towards Harry. No Name yelled out a spell that Harry didn’t recognize and sent a short wall of flame towards Harry. The two spells connected, setting the flammable bits of the rubble alight and sped towards Harry with a fiery speed. Because of the width of the combined spells, Harry couldn’t simply dodge out of the way as had become his habit. He took a quick breath, planted his right foot in front of his body, making sure that the target he presented was slightly smaller and intoned a spell that he had only read about and had never taken the time to practice.

“Scutum glacies!” Harry breathed, hoping he’d gotten the pronunciation right. From the books that he had read, this shield charm was a more specialized, and more powerful form of Protego. There seemed to be a shield of sorts for all of the elements. Harry’s shield formed just as he was buffeted for the fiery debris. While his shield blocked the combined spell of the two wizards, it did nothing to stop the Cruciatus curse that Bellatrix sent. She followed that short burst with a teal colored spell that peppered Harry’s body with lacerations. Harry didn’t get time to cry out in pain as he was hit with another Cruciatus curse, driving all remaining breath out of his body.

The pain stopped after what seemed like an eternity, but was likely closer to 30 seconds. Harry drew breath raggedly. He had to even the odds, and none of the spells that he learned in the classroom would be of much good against the type of spells that were being sent at him. He slowly, and painfully, got to his feet, not quite ignoring the amount of blood was he was seeming to lose. He resumed his stance once more.

His actions caused a moment of shock to flicker across the faces of the Deatheaters in front of him. Bellatrix herself was seemingly at a loss for words. Harry took a deep breath and suddenly thrust his wand toward a ruined automobile to his right. Another slash of his wand threw the vehicle at Bellatrix with unnerving speed, she moved out of the way with only a split second to spare, saving herself, but allowing the vehicle to hit the one Deatheater that Harry had taken out already. He would be dead before the car finished rolling.

“Interitum Coruscantis!” Harry bellowed, intoning another spell that he had learned from his last few days at Hogwarts. A bolt of lightning lanced out of his wand and snaked its way to O’Neil who screamed loudly as the skin on his face started to melt under the heat of the spell. Harry moved out of the way as Shrivers sent a dark blue curse at him. Another Cruciatus hit him from the side as Bellatrix connected again. This time he screamed, and loudly.

Time seemed to slow for him. His mind seemed to retreat deeper into his being where the pain didn’t seem to reach him. He _felt_ the physical part of him convulsing on the ground, but he couldn’t actually feel the effects of the spell itself.

_“Be at ease my son. I can’t protect you for long, but we need to get you away so that your body can heal.”_ A voice spoke to him from nowhere. He was suddenly blinded by a warm light that pierced the darkness of the pain he vividly remembered.

_“Mum?”_ Harry thought incredulously. He vividly remembered her screaming, what with the pain that he felt when Dementors were near. On the other hand, he could only vaguely recall her more normal voice not inflicted with pain. It was beautiful. Soft and warm, but strong in the sense that she was a confident woman. He loved it. The deep emotions within himself at finally hearing his mother’s voice nearly burst forth. They did threatened, however, to overwhelm his brain.

_“Rise my son. Go and fight!”_ Lilly Potter spoke strongly. So compelling was her command that Harry didn’t even register his physical body rising from the ground, to further shock the three remaining Deatheaters.  He wouldn’t register the tickling sensation behind his physical eyes as he gazed at his enemies. He certainly would realize the significance of emphatic pounding of his heart, or the quiver of his body as his magic threatened to overwhelm him.

Harry, however, did seem to feel the magic leave his wand as he shot out a few Reductos towards the general direction of his enemy. None hit, but the impact of the spells caused the Deatheaters to lose their position of power. He forced them to separate. He immediately advanced on the one to his left of him, O’Neil, whose badly burned face could not hide the shock at the sudden barrage.

Harry threw as many spells as he could, as fast as he could, battering the shield of the Deatheater in front of him. O’Neil continued to maneuver backwards until one of the Disarming Charms broke through and stripped him of his wand. Harry, in his haste to overwhelm the Deatheater, continued casting another three spells. The first spell, a Reducto blew the man’s wand arm messily from his body. The spell, a Cutting charm, neatly cut through the man’s fingers from his remaining, leaving him with badly bleeding stump. The third and final spell, a Reducto Maxima, hit the man in the midsection, cutting him in two. He would be dead before he realized that his shield had failed him.

Harry, not idle, rolled backwards out of the way of the two Killing Curses sent his way. A few seconds later, and he would’ve still been in the same spot, but dead. The Deatheaters, still with superior numbers began to use Harry’s tactic of throwing spells as fast as they could. Harry, throwing up his best shield, put his entire mental effort into focusing the shield. A few of the particularly nasty spells, such as the Skin Peeling Curse, passed through his shield with enough power to take his breath away. Concentration faltering, it was only by sheer dumb luck that he avoided the worse of the spells sent his way.

The Deatheaters, it seemed, had a vast arsenal of spells that would cause pain or unbearable discomfort. They seemed to be wanting to cause as much pain as possible in the event that they did get through his shield. They would not be disappointed as several more spells saw Harry coughing up blood, bleeding from multiple lacerations, smelling of burnt skin a clothing, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side, and his wand missing. Even battered, he managed a deadly glare at the Deatheaters in front of him.

“My Master will reward me greatly for this.” Bellatrix spoke. Harry spit blood onto her robes.

“Fuck you! You and your master can go to Hell.” Harry spoke vehemently, internally saying a quick prayer for his friends. He distantly heard a recognizable _POP_ before he saw the first syllables form.

“Avada Kedavra!” Bellatrix snarled, ensuring that the Boy-Who-Lived would never be a thorn in her Master’s side again. She didn’t quite notice the golden aura that snapped into place around Harry Potter and the green light struck him in the chest with ferocious force, blowing his tattered body down the street. She did catch the lifeless look on his face in that fleeting moment, and she knew then that her master would reward her.

She gave a nod to her remaining Deatheater, and they Disapparated with a _POP._


	5. Ramifications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our Hero is discovered.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, considered by many to be the most powerful wizard in the world, was stuck in a conundrum. Hogwarts had let out less than a week ago, and that made for many duties for the Headmaster. He had to review the upcoming budget, give raises where appropriate, review the professors’ disciplinary actions, their average grades in their classes, as well as a host of other things. To be fair, the Deputy Headmistress was more than qualified and wiling to assist in these matters. However, this summer break was completely different. The Headmaster felt indebted to the school as a whole for what he deemed as personal failures during the last school year. He had allowed the ministry too much leeway, had not fought hard enough to keep his position, and failed his most important mandate; protecting the students of Hogwarts.

Some would say, that with his numerous and highly involved positions, that he was spreading himself thin. He was already Headmaster of one of the best schools in the world, as well as the Supreme Mugwump. On top of those very prestigious titles, he held a chair on several very important committees, not to mention the he was the leader of the Order of the Phoenix. Only his closest confidants knew why he worked himself so hard, and spread himself so thin, but they would keep his secrets to the grave.

At any point in time, given his numerous positions, the Headmaster (as that was by far his favorite title) had numerous plans and schemes, and contingent plans and schemes in case those came into fruition. To be honest, for a man of his talents, most of his positions did not require too much of his time or mental capacity, but all of his positions allowed him certain privileges and insights that he often used to help those in need. His crusades against the classist bigots in the government came second only to his desire to help those less fortunate. The Weasley family with their financial woes, Remus with his lycanthropy, and Hagrid with his many struggles, were simply some of the better known cases of his humanity.

His conundrum now, though, dealt almost exclusively with Harry Potter. He had failed the boy once more. He couldn’t officially have a favorite student, but if he could Harry Potter would easily take the title. He, admittedly, allowed Harry a great deal of leeway, but he did so believing that students would learn more by making mistakes; they simply had to be allowed to make mistakes and not be punished for it. In Harry’s case, with what he’d lost, and the pressure tossed on him from the moment he was born, Dumbledore could sympathize with the boy. Harry dealt with so much, and yet was still a good human being. It was a wonder that Harry didn’t destroy offices more often. The memory brought a smile to the headmaster’s face. It was likely one of the few times he had been afraid for his safety. It was justified though. Harry deserved such an outlet after another loss was thrust upon him, this one preventable. Albus Dumbledore would forever live with the burden that he had inadvertently caused the death of Sirius Black.

“Headmaster Dumbledore sir?” A voice had broken into his thoughts. “Was there something that you’d like to add?” The man, Sam, continued.

“My apologies Samuel, an old man found himself lost in his thoughts. No, you and this committee have done a brilliant job making strides in the name of change. It may seem as if things will never change, but remember that change on such a grand scale may manifest itself in many ways.” Albus responded, smoothing their fears. His gaze caught the eyes of the other 6 people in the room, and as one they stood, bringing the meeting to an end.

Dumbledore beat a hasty retreat and Apparated directly to his office at Hogwarts. He was still going through the tedious process of putting his office back together. A few wand waves had taken care of most of the damage, but the silver instruments had to be recalibrated. Few would immediately recognize them for what they were, but these instruments were extremely essential to the protections of those under him. The silver instrument in front of him allowed him to monitor the wards at #4 Privet Drive, and essentially the protection of Harry Potter. It was linked to the medallion that he always wore around his neck.

Being sensitive to many types of magic, Dumbledore had redoubled his efforts when he felt the medallion vibrate a few days past. It was quick, and went back to normal not long after, but it had meant to him that Harry had been threatened. The magic wasn’t exact of course, as falling down the stairs would make it buzz as well. However, without the silver instrument, the medallion could only give limited feedback, and usually well after an event had passed.

He knew, of course, the entire schedule of those scheduled to guard Harry around the clock, and felt confident that he would know of any immediate danger to the boy. However, he also understood that one had to factor in the opportunity for human error. No one was perfect, and yet this situation caused for a certain level of perfection and accountability. He needed a failsafe should there be any human err. He would work dedicate all of his free time and work meticulously to fix this machine first.

It was because of this that he was never alerted to the battle that was taking place in the suburban streets of London, just a few miles from the home of the Dursley’s.

 

**********

Remus Lupin was in bad shape. He had actually just completed another transformation, and his body and magic was sore. It usually took him no less than half a day to recover enough to where he could actually move around with minimal discomfort. Even though the potions from Severus helped a lot to deal with the pain and the ease of the transformation, the human body was not meant to change shape in such a way.

Usually, in the time nearing his transformations, his magic wasn’t always responsive to him. In some cases, especially spells that dealt heavily in Transfiguration, it was nearly impossible for him to complete a task. He had to make sure that he kept all of his magic simple and away from transfiguring one thing to another, which was seemingly a big deal for the magical world. One never realized just how often they relied on their magic in order to do day to day tasks.

Remus, a very powerful and fairly accomplished wizard in his own right, usually attempted to keep a good handle on his magic. If anything, Remus always strived to be careful, especially with his lycanthropy as an issue. Being able to turn into a werewolf once a month made his day to day living a bit more difficult than most wizards. Not only did he have to keep a good lid on the werewolf instincts, he had to make sure that he physical manifestations did not disrupt anything either. He was, quite literally, physically stronger and faster than most other wizards. Quite literally, he could pick Hagrid up. The danger posed there was that he could easily hurt someone that was not Hagrid’s stature.

With the danger in his magic being shared with what could, technically, be another entity, Remus had to always be in control. He had learned Occlumency from Dumbledore at a very early stage, and usually had a number of potions on his person should the pain become unbearable, even with the Wolfsbane Potion in his system. It was one of these that had him currently had in a restless, but deep sleep.

On top of that, a few days ago, once he had truly embraced the idea of being Harry’s Godfather, he had felt another part of him in the back of his head that allowed him to _feel_ Harry in a matter of speaking. Not only could he feel his relative health, but he could, at times, feel the raw power of the boy’s emotions. Harry, being the powerful wizard that he was, had very powerful emotions and always seemed to be in a state of flux. Remus often felt a spike in his own magic as a result of his Godson.

With his magic in a constant flux, and with it being an unusually strong episode, Remus never felt his magic spike in regards to the danger that was befalling his newly acquired Godson.

 

**********

Nymphadora Tonks stood in the shadows under an invisibility cloak, quietly counting the strands of hair on the back of her hand. Today, like most of the other days she had been on guard duty, was dreadfully boring. The family that she was keeping an eye on was the quiet, happy sort, and she was really only here in the off chance that Deatheaters came snooping around. She possessed a medallion with which she could call for reinforcements within a moment’s notice. But, that was only in the worst case scenarios.

She thought back to her accomplishments since she had graduated Hogwarts. To many, she was seen as a very quirky, and extremely clumsy young woman. Many at the Auror Academy hadn’t wanted to ever work with her because of these attributes. In a sense, it was extremely true that she was indeed a clumsy person, but as she reflected, she knew that she could have ended up much worse; especially since she had been a member of the Black family.

In truth, she had never been comfortable in her own skin. As a Metamorphagus, she had the unique ability to alter parts of her body, and in some cases, change completely into a different person with a moment’s thought. To some, it was her greatest strength. To her, it was her greatest weakness. After all, how could one know who they were if they were always a different person? It had made Auror school extremely easy, but made her social life very difficult.

In her time at Hogwarts, she was only popular as long as she was making other people happy. They always wanted her to turn into something different for their amusement. Guys that feigned interest in her did so only because they wanted her to adjust certain parts of her body. She had received many detentions as a result of her retaliating against their very physical advances. With the detentions came the rumors, and it forever haunted her.

In the Auror Academy she excelled once she put her full focus on her academics. She was still clumsy, after all her body was always changing, but she was a fierce dueler and one of the more powerful new Aurors. Meeting Sirius, once Dumbledore had convinced her that he was not a criminal, had changed her perspective on many things. His carefree attitude, despite having been locked away for 12 years, was always soothing to her after a particular harsh day. He had once told her that she shouldn’t take life too seriously because she would never make it out alive. Those were perhaps the wisest words that anyone had spoken to her, and coming from her cousin who wasn’t too much older than she was, made it all the more meaningful. If anything, it made her life far more meaningful.

Sirius dying had been a crisis that she wasn’t sure that she could completely overcome. He had made her promise to take care of Harry in the event that anything happened to him. And so she would. After meeting the young man in question, she could see why Sirius cared for him so much. He was a strong, compassionate, humble teenager that had faced an extremely difficult life to only be 15 years old.

 _“I don’t know how he can be so strong all the time!”_ She thought sadly as she resumed her counting. Dumbledore would have her head if she let anything happen to the person she was guarding at the moment.

At that moment, a piercing scream cut through the stillness of the air, shattering the tranquility of the peaceful neighborhood.

“Bloody hell Hermione!” Tonks cursed as she raced from her hiding spot and into the home.

**********

Hermione Granger had been passing the day away with light reading, and by that, she was reading a dusty tome entitled _Debts of Love_ which was loaned to her by Headmaster Dumbledore. The book itself was of no importance, but it did allow her to take her mind off of a lot of issues at the time, most of them concerning her bestfriend Harry Potter. She hadn’t heard from him this break as of yet, which worried her. She knew that losing such a polarizing figure could be traumatizing to a person’s psyche. Harry, more so than others, seemed to have a very short fuse. More exactly, he seemed to have had a much rougher life than many others. She had lost her Grandmother at a young age, and the pain and emptiness had stayed with her for quite some time after.

In Harry’s case, it had to be far worse. Not only did he lose his parents before he could truly get to know them, but he had lost the next best thing after only having had Sirius in his life for a short period of time. Even worse, he was almost immediately tossed back with the Dursley’s before he could even talk to his friends about how he was feeling. She would never forgive Dumbledore for that, ever. She knew Harry, probably  better than anyone else, and she realized that he tended to keep a lot of his emotions bottled up as opposed to facing them head on and actually figuring out a way through them.

Harry Potter deserved much better than the world was currently giving him, they all did. It often irked her to no end that they were often referred to as “children” when some of the things they had been forced to accomplish would strike fear in the hearts of adults. She respected adults, understood the need for authority figures, but was not truly a fan of unnecessary restrictions on her and the lives of her friends. If anything, Harry, at least, deserved far more.

She had been reading when she suddenly found herself feeling faint. Suddenly it was a struggle to keep her eyes open, her heart rate increased, and her wand sparked angrily from her atop her bedside table. More noticeably, to her anyway, was the piercing pain that she felt in her forehead, nearly exactly in the same spot as Harry’s scar.

 _“Merlin’s beard!”_ Hermione swore inwardly. That brief flash of pain, though, would only be a precursor to the storm of pain that would buffet her. It was her loud jarring scream that drew a frantic and concerned Nymphadora Tonks crashing through her bedroom door, blowing it to pieces. Whether it was purposeful or one of her clumsy mistakes, no one would ever know.

“Hermione!! What’s wrong?” Tonks shouted, surveying the neat room with a quick glance, wand at the ready.

“I- I don’t know. I can’t really expla-!” Hermione started, and stopped as her body began convulsing horribly. Tonks stood in shock for a few moments before she expertly flicked her wand, muttered a spell, and calmed the shaking body of the teenager.

“Hermione, take a deep breath! What the bloody hell is going on?” Tonks spoke hastily. For once in Hermione’s memory, she could see no trace of the playful Tonks that she had come to know and appreciate, and she could finally see every bit of the Auror that the woman truly was. It was a frightening difference.

“I think we have to go! I think- I think that Harry might be in trouble?” Hermione spoke, knowing immediately that she sounded foolish. After all, how in the world would _she_ know that Harry was in trouble?

Tonks frowned deeply before responding to the frightening girl.

“I haven’t heard any reports back from his guards. We usually check in every hour. In fact, their due in for another check-in within the next few moments.” Tonks spoke while checking her watch. Hermione growled in frustration.

“Tonks, I know that something is happening to Harry. I- I can feel him. He’s hurting badly. He needs us. He needs me.” Hermione spoke, on the verge of tears.

“Hermione, I believe you.” Tonks began, “But, how are we supposed to find him? Do you know where he is? Do you know what’s happening to him? Do you know how to get him? These are all important questions, that we need to answer! We can’t just run off and go any which way!”

“He my best friend!” Hermione nearly shouting, wondering why it was taking Tonks so long to be on her side and believe her.

“Ok. How sure are you? Do you know where he is? Or what’s wrong?” Tonks asked as she began to flick her wand and use the messenger spell that Dumbledore had created. She needed to know where Harry’s guard was, and what the situation was. As much as she wanted to immediately believe the girl in front of her, she could not help be thinking of Mad-Eye Moody shouting his favorite phrase in her ear!

 _“CONSTANT VIGILANCE! The enemy will not wait for you to become aware of them.”_ On Hot Missions, the missions where only the top and most senior Aurors were assigned, they all attributed their success to the power and authenticity of this message.

Her sharp intake of breath suddenly stopped the pacing Hermione.

“What is it?” Hermione asked, frantic. Despite the Pain Numbing Spell that Tonks had cast on her, she could still feel the strength of the pain that Harry was enduring. It was like nothing she had every felt before.

“My messenger came back with the messenger undelivered. Grab your wand, we need to get to Privet Drive as quickly as possible.” Tonks spoke hastily, finally sending off a few other messengers in various directions, alerting key member to a possible RED Alert. She knew that it was highly likely that the Orders on duty simply fell asleep, and that a RED Alert could cause a bit of a panic, but she also knew that she had to be safe, even if she was wrong.

“What was that?” Hermione, ever perceptive, asked as Tonks crossed the room and grabbed her right arm tightly.

“I just sent out messages to all Order members that are currently on duty to be on high alert as we have a team that is currently unreachable. That’s called out RED Alert. If, for some reason, there is no response within the next 5 minutes or so, I will issue out a BLACK Alert, which basically screams out a call for help for any Order members at all.” Tonks explain hurriedly, while dragging Hermione into the alleyway behind her home and out of range of the wards. With a loud _CRACK_ the two witches disappeared, thoroughly scaring the daylights out of a young squirrel burying a nut.

**********

Tonks and her passenger, Hermione, reappeared in an alley. From a few glances around, Hermione could see that this was an affluent neighborhood, and seemingly in a good area. From her guess, she was assuming that the house that they had appeared behind was the home that Harry had been raised in. From the outside looking in, one would be hesitant to believe any of the stories that Harry had reluctantly shared in regards to his relatives. And yet, she had seen these very same people and knew that they were the worst sort of people possible, and they weren’t very easy on the eye either.

“Come on, we have to go in and check the house out. The wards will not allow anyone to just Apparate in. Keep your wand ready, but try not to use if at all possible. And if the worse is to happen, then you get yourself out. Do you understand me Hermione?” Tonks said in a vicious whisper, and without waiting for an answer, she tapped one of the wooden planks of the gate and made it vanish.

A few quick spells from Tonks and they were suddenly within one of the cleanest homes Hermione had ever stepped foot in. In fact, in some ways, the house was too clean. Her own home, while far from messy, felt lived in. This home, on the other hand, felt bare and possessed a depth of sheer emptiness. It made Hermione shiver in it.

“If you see any of the Muggles, stun them before they can make a sound. I am hereby giving you emergency authorization to use magic with me.” Tonks stated, while moving into the living room through the kitchen.

“It’s too quiet in here Tonks.” Hermione spoke finally, nearly frightened by the sound of her own voice.

“I know. Gives me the creeps. I’ve only ever been here one time before, and I hated it. Come on, his room is this way.” Tonks replied as she led the teen to the staircase. Once upstairs, Hermione let out a gasp as she beheld the sheer number of locks on the bedroom door.

“Those fucking monsters!” Hermione growled loudly causing Tonks to shush her in response. Opening the door, Hermione was greeted by one of the smallest bedrooms she had ever see. Sadly, she was sure that her own bathroom attached to her bedroom was larger than this room. Even being sparsely furnished, the room felt constricting. She wasn’t sure how a teenage boy could stand an entire summer stifled within. It was no wonder Harry was always ready to leave and escape. It was no wonder that he thought of Hogwarts as his home.

The next thing she noticed was a flash of white flying through the air of the small room. It took her a moment, but she finally recognized Hedwig looking as distressed as an owl could possibly look.

“What’s wrong girl?” Hermione asked in a soothing tone, stroking the owl as she landed on her shoulder. Though the owl couldn’t talk, she bobbed her head back and forth in a very aggressive manner.

“I can’t believe I’m even going to ask this, but what is she saying?” Tonks said, while standing near the window and looking out.

“I’m not sure. I think it has something to do with Harry.” Hermione spoke. With the name of her Master, Hedwig bobbed her head even harder and gave a loud screech.

“I’d say you were right Hermione!” Tonks spoke while coming closer to investigate. “Do you know where he is girl?” She asked the owl, mentally slapping her forehead as the ridiculousness of the question settled in on her. Hedwig, though, bobbed her head in what would definitely be an affirmative in the human world.

“Can you take up to him?” Hermione ask softly, he heart starting to beat fast. Something deep inside of her, coupled with her own pain, let her know that something was very wrong with her bestfriend. Another soft hoot from Hedwig, and suddenly she floated over to the closed window, indicating that she needed to be free. Hermione was only a second behind the bird and roughly shoved the window open.

“Come on, we have to follow her!” Tonks called to Hermione, while she herself was already heading out of the bedroom door. Rushing down the steep staircase was dangerous, but the two witches managed to make it to the bottom without hurting themselves, and ran straight out of the front door. Hedwig was waiting on a tree nearby and took off immediately with the witches jogging behind.

“Do you know how to track an owl? What if he’s far away? We can’t Apparate to him can we?” Hermione asked, her emotional state eating away at her rationality.

“We can’t track her. At least, I don’t know how. But we can maybe use a spell to point towards Harry. I think Dumbledore has a charm embedded in him that allows him to find his general location. He taught it to a few of the Order members in case Harry ever got lost….or captured.” Tonks stated, ending the sentence hesitantly. Hermione stopped short and threw her hands over her mouth in shock.

“You don’t think he was captured do you?” She asked fearfully.

“I don’t know. I really don’t. His guard for today would have reported anything suspicious that they had seen or heard. It’s protocol. We just have to hope for the best.” Tonks replied as she continued jogging, forcing Hermione to keep up with her. Hedwig had long since flown ahead of them, but something told Hermione to continue to run in that direction. In fact, if she had taken the time to think about it, she would have been mildly surprised that she wasn’t even breathing hard. The thought would hit her later.

As they turned a corner, they could suddenly see dark smoke billowing into the air, and in their ears, faint screams. Tonks suddenly reached out to grab Hermione strongly by the arm, and before the girl could protest, had Apparated both of them several blocks further ahead. The smoke was much more visible and the screams much more audible.

“Why didn’t I do that before?” Tonks asked, barely out of breath. The run itself had been nothing to her as she had to run daily for her Auror warm-ups. Besides that, in Auror training, they had often been forced to run at near full speed for several minutes without a break, after an already exhausting training session. However, she did take notice of the energy level that Hermione still retained, despite not having an apparent history of being very active.

She wouldn’t be able to ask about it, because at that moment one of her instruments, a Dark Magic Detector, was vibrating strongly on the string that she had it attached to under her shirt. Most Aurors went without it, preferring to use a spell, but this had specifically been a gift from Mad-Eye Moody, her mentor and an Auror legend. Essentially, its purpose was to pick up the spells that were powered by ill Intent, and because it gave off far less magic than an actual spell would, Mad-Eye Moody had sworn by it. It had the added benefit of having saved her life numerous times, too, but it was a handy trinket. After all, it did little good if giving off your presence caused the people that you were hunting to hunt you instead.

What was usually a mild vibration to alert the wearer of the magic in its vicinity, was not a vibration of such force that it momentarily took Tonks by surprise. What it indicated to her was the sheer strength and number of the Dark Magic that was in the air. It made her shiver as she inwardly prepared for the worse.

“Hermione, no matter what, keep your eyes straight ahead.” Tonks tried to warn, but the girl wasn’t listening. She was poised, on the tips of her feet as if straining for a few extra inches to see something of vast importance. “What’s wrong Hermione? There may be a lot of bad things in there, and you may not be ready to see them.” Tonks stated, suppressing the memories of the first time she had seen dead bodies.

“Harry’s there.” Hermione spoke, barely above a whisper. The words alone drove the breath from Tonks body as she realized the implications, but before she could say another word, Hermione was moving into the area. Tonks was torn between screaming for the girl to stop, and racing after her. She chose the latter and with her heart heavy, she followed Hermione. For her own sake, Tonks was happy that Hermione had her eyes set on her destination and not on the death and destruction around her. The mutilated corpses of these poor victims was enough to make her lose her breakfast from hours ago. Suddenly, she ran into the back of Hermione. Peering around the girl she saw the tell-tale flash of green light followed by the sound of someone disapparating away.

“Tonks…. I.. I can’t feel him anymore.” Hermione stuttered out as she seemed to sway back and forth in place. Tonks, fearing that the young woman could fall at any moment, put a hand on her shoulder.

“What do you mean you can’t feel him?” Tonks asked.

“I don’t know. When I think about it, I’ve always been good at reading his moods and his emotions, but I never stopped to think that maybe I was reading him too accurately. And…and it only happened with him. And now… Now, I feel nothing.” Hermione responded.

“Come on girl, let’s find him.” Tonks responded.

It didn’t take long to find the center of the battlefield. Tonks immediately recognized the still form of Vernon Dursley, and the dark cloaks and masks of fallen Deatheaters. On top of that, her charm was stopped vibrating altogether and was now increasing in heat, something it had never done before. A few more meters forward, and Tonks finally laid eyes upon the Boy-Who-Lived, eyes wide open, a determined look forever etched onto his face. Before her lay the slain form of Harry James Potter.

**********

 

Though it was truly only moments, to Tonks and Hermione it seemed as if an eternity has crept by in the time it took for another wizard to arrive. The wizard in question was the famed Alastor Moody, her mentor and retired Auror. The man had appeared with a loud _POP_ a few dozen meters away, and limped closer to where she currently stood. His magical eye spinning so fast in so many directions that she wondered if he actually _saw_ anything.

“What’s the meaning of the Code Red?” Moody barked in his usual gruff voice, immediately expecting a response. When he realized that one was not forthcoming, he crept a bit closer to see what held the attention of the witches. Both eyes immediately fell onto the battered, broken, and very deceased form of Harry Potter. His breath caught, and he momentarily panicked, but years of training and being in hazardous situations quickly persevered and he managed to school his features. Even still, when he turned his head to look at Nymphadora Tonks, the panic was clear in his eyes.

“Quick girl, how long has he been here?! Hurry!!!” He fairly roared. Hermione, still in her catatonic state, remained silent. Tonks gave Moody the highlights of their excursion, summarizing and skipping the necessary parts.

“That’s it. We’ve maybe only stood here for all of three minutes before you arrived.” Tonks finished, still eying Hermione out of the side of her eye. Beside her, Moody quickly whipped out his wand and shot a spell off with great force. Moments later, the form of Albus Dumbledore quickly popped into view, his silent appearance and grim demeanor nearly breaking Tonks heart. His brilliant twinkle nowhere in sight, Albus Dumbledore quickly assessed the situation and took command, his strong voice breaking through the heartache that had kept Hermione and Tonks stock still.

“Tonks, you are to escort Miss Granger to HQ. A perimeter has been set up for this area. Once you drop her off, I will need you to gather the Weasley’s and take them there as well. Then you are to notify the rest of the members of the security status change. We are Code Black as of this moment. Severus, I need information, urgently. Alastor, I may need your assistance, we may still have time, but we need to clear this area. Kingsley will take command here and see what he can ascertain. You have your orders, I trust you will not fail me.” Dumbledore spoke, keeping tight control over his features as his own innate magic “tasted” the air around him.

Tonks, nodded mutely, and without warning grabbed Hermione and disappeared in a _CRACK_. Severus Snape, nearly invisible in his silence, nodded to the Headmaster before pulling up the dark hood of his cloak and vanished swiftly with a _POP._

“Albus, what can we do?” Moody asked, now that he was sure that no one else was around. “The boy looks to have been struck by the Killing Curse. As powerful as you are, I highly doubt that you can bring the boy back. It can’t be done. You can’t give life.” He continued. He watched as Dumbledore nodded sagely, his expression still nearly unreadable.

“Alastor, my dear friend, I am afraid that where young Harry Potter is concerned, the word can’t does not apply.” Dumbledore spoke before reaching down to touch the forehead of Harry Potter. At his touch, the two disappeared. Alastor, flabbergasted, quickly followed to the most sensible location, The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay. I will not abandon this story, you have my word on that. There are actually several chapters/scenes already written, and it's a matter of finding time to connect them around my life. Thanks for all of the reading and support. It really means a lot to me.


	6. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A talk.... a journey... a decision

Chapter 5: Fate

It was dark, and cold. It was not the cold of a January blizzard, nor was it the cold of the heartless world that billions inhabited. No, if anything, it could be described as a penetrating cold, and yet not on a physical level. It was the cold of a world that was absent of life.

_‘_ _Ut daret spiritum mortuis. Perduc animam de profundo.’_ A deep voice seemed to whisper from the recesses of his mind. It felt vaguely familiar as it caressed his mind. He did not have time to pay any attention to it as a light seemed to flicker on all around him. Reflexively, he shut his eyes shut, but to no avail. The power of the light easily pierced his closed eyelids, blinding him.

“Do not be afraid child,” A voice sounded from everywhere. “No harm shall befall you.”

Green eyes blinked open and Harry Potter took in the sights before him. The light was not as harsh to him as he had previously believed. The light warmed him body, both inward and outward. He turned his present task to that of locating the sound of the second voice that he heard.  No matter how he twisted and turned, he could not see a single person near him to explain the voice. In fact, once his mind caught up to him, he could see nothing around him at all.

“Where am I?” Harry asked aloud.

“You, for all intents and purposes, are dead. You are nowhere, and everywhere.” The voice sounded again. Despite the length of conversation, Harry could still not place if the voice was male or female. More than that, the voice itself seemed to reverberate all around him. It was full of coiled power, and the feel of it in the air made him shiver.

“So I’m dead now,” Harry spoke, suppressing the tears threatening to cascade from his face. “I still have so much to do, so many people to save.” The last part was spoken more to himself, but it mattered not as the voice seemed to hear him anyway.

“Hence, the reason for your presence.” The voice spoke again.

“Is it that you want something from me? I’m not sure I have much to give being dead and all.” Harry muttered, still recovering from his latest bout of shivers from the intoxicating touch of the voice.

“What do you want Harry Potter?” The voice asked after a moments pause.

“I don’t know,” Harry started. “I… I guess I’m tired.” Harry spoke, surprising himself with the honesty of his words. He paused a moment to evaluate his statement.

_‘Am I tired? Tired of what to be exact? Of running for my life? Of being mistreated by people that don’t even know me? Am I tired of being expected to swoop in and save the day? I wonder if Dumbledore ever gets tired?’_ Harry thought grimly. He speculated that Dumbledore was a one of kind human being, in that the man never seemed to tire from helping people and saving lives. Dumbledore, though, had many more decades of experience. It was likely that Dumbledore had already forgotten more about people than Harry could ever hope to learn. The thought was somber for Harry.

_‘Here I am, a 15 year old wizard who has faced the current Dark Lord and survived the current Dark Lord more times than I would like to count. And yet, no one seems to care about Harry Potter. If I weren’t the Boy-Who-Lived, would I even matter to some people? Would they care that I can never get to sleep because of the nightmares? Would they care that I have scars that new skin, and spells wound never end.’_ Harry continued his morbid manner of thinking.

It was true. Since he could remember, he wasn’t sure of anyone that started off liking him for him. Even the very first time, Hermione had greeted him with a strong, “You’re Harry Potter. I’ve read all about you.” Most people, Harry realized, saw the scar and immediately came to a conclusion about him that was drawn from inaccurate depictions of him in the Daily Prophet. It truly baffled him at times. Even Ron, his first best-friend, was fickle in his appreciation the true Harry Potter. Fourth year was the most recent proof of such actions, as Ron immediately believed that Harry had tossed his name into the Goblet of Fire. Second year, was even worse with people immediately thinking that he was the Heir of Slytherin. In the eyes of the public, he could do nothing right.

It was a painful realization that his destiny was to save and protect the very people that cared nothing for him. Yes, he was indeed tired. To any outsider, looking into his green eyes would show the depth of pain hidden within. He was cut off from his thoughts by the voice speaking again.

“Alas, the road you travel, that many before you have travelled, is never an easy path. It is often fraught with pain and very little happiness. And yet, you must remember that the decision to continue to embark upon that path lies solely in your hands. No one can truly make you do that which you do not wish to do.”

“I’ve never felt like I had a choice. Everyone treats me like a child! Or a thing to be admired one moment and tossed aside the next.” Harry retorted, his tone growing angrier. The voice was silent, as if beckoning him to continue his tirade.

“No one listens to me. No one cares about _me_ and what I want. Mrs. Weasley, with all of her intentions coddles me! I am too old for that. I have seen too much for that. Even the Order seems to think I’m a useless teenager, and that I need to be babysat.” Harry continued, oblivious to the pressure that was attempting to build behind his eyes.

“What do you wish for Harry Potter?” The voice spoke again. Harry stood, or floated, or simply existed, quiet for some time.

The truth of the matter was the no one has asked him what _he_ wanted before. It seemed as if everyone always thought they knew best about his life. It seemed ironic that Dumbledore often mentioned wanting to keep Harry happy, and yet did everything but.

_‘Hell, what_ is _happiness?’_ Harry thought morbidly. Yes, he had smiled. Yes, he had laughed. And yet, even then he could sense his own false cheer. It was as if he was brought into this world to be miserable.

“Would you wish your pain on another human being?” The voice asked.

“What? No… I guess I’d wish for them to understand how alone I feel in the world.” Harry whispered. There, he had finally said it. He felt lonely. With that admission the dam broke, and the tears flowed freely down his face. His eyes, unseeing, did not register the scenery around him changing as scenes from his life flashed by.

He stood stock still as he noticed the images. He could see the rage and utter disdain for his existence on the face of his uncle. He could still feel the sting on his cheek the first time he had asked his Aunt if she loved him. He had been seven years old, and had heard a mother tell her son that she loved him. At the time, he immediately thought he did something wrong. After she had slapped him, she had grabbed him by his ear and bodily threw him into the cupboard, where he’d stay for the entire weekend without food or water. When he got out of the cupboard, to get ready for school, his uncle had smacked roughly on the back of his head for irritating his wife.

He could remember coming home from school and having his cousin Dudley push him roughly into the wall, leaving a dent in the wall and Harry with a bloody face. Although his Aunt and Uncle had clearly seen what had happened, he was blamed and punished first for being clumsy enough to fall into the wall and leave a blemish, and then for getting his blood all over the house. He didn’t eat for a weak that time. He wasn’t sure how they explained his absence.

He could remember the one time that Uncle Vernon had gotten sloppily drunk and viciously beat him until he was unconscious. He had the bruises for the next two months, and his then broken arm had never felt the same to him. He had coughed up blood for the next several days, only being taken to the doctor when Petunia was afraid that he’d die. They had lied to the doctor and told the staff that he had gotten attacked by some neighborhood bullies.

Throughout all of this, he only ever sought their love. He rarely raised his voice to them, had learned meekness the hard way, and never felt a loving embrace. Whenever Vernon had a bad day at work, or a dispute with his wife, Harry had taken the punishment.

He could remember being an outcast at school as well. Being bullied for being short, skinny, and for wearing his cousins hand-me-downs did nothing for his self-esteem. The teachers seemed only a little better than the Dursleys, and yet they would only intervene when they deemed it necessary. It wasn’t as if he was a bad student either. He had been forcefully reminded, multiple times, about showing up his cousin with better grades. Some of that mentality explained his habits at Hogwarts as well. He was nearly wired to never succeed, or think that he was better in any way.

In hindsight, some of those vicious lessons and reminders and only made him stronger. He didn’t cry much anymore for instance.  He noticed, too, that the sting of rejection wasn’t nearly as strong as it used to be years prior. It made him stronger because he no longer felt the need to depend on anyone, or be led to believe that anyone could truly care about him.

Too, though, he knew his heart was heavy. He would give all of his worldly possessions for a conversation with his parents, who he knew loved him unconditionally. Would they be proud of him? Would they scold him for nearly always being in some form of trouble? Would they still loved him now that he wasn’t an innocent baby, and now that he had a taste of the darkness that they world had to offer?

“That can be arranged.” The voice spoke, startlingly Harry out of his thoughts. He had forgotten where he was with all of his reminiscing. His eyes focused and he could see the imagery from his life pause. The scenery around him changed without any obvious movement, and suddenly he could see two figures walking towards, each strikingly familiar.

“Hello son.” Spoke the voice of James Potter.

**********

Dumbledore almost immediately appeared at Grimmauld Place. He, without thought, pushed down the feeling of nearly overwhelming guilt as he walked through the halls of the mansion. Though he knew that Sirius was beyond his help and truly gone from the world, he understood that he could not get lost in that rush of emotions that had been eating away at him. As he walked, he studied the slight burden in his arms, Harry Potter. He hoped that he wasn’t too late. Technically, what he was about to attempt was illegal, and was not likely to know looked as a form of Light Magic. In all of his travels and studies, though, he had yet to find a spell that was truly Dark or Light.

The ritual that he was going to attempt came to his mind, only because he knew of the protection that Lily had left for Harry as she sacrificed herself to save him. There were myths that the ritual was once used to save Merlin, but reports from such a long time ago could not always be trusted.

“Fawkes!” Dumbledore cried, hoping that his phoenix was up for the task already. After the Killing Cure he had swallowed at the Ministry, he was still young and not fully revived as of yet, but the power of the phoenix lay in its healing and ability to revitalize. He was hoping that the potion of his own making, coupled with the protection provided by Lily, and the tears and song of Fawkes would be enough o bring Harry back.

He entered Sirius’ bedroom and without a thought or physical motion he vanished the bed that was in the room. Carefully laying the pale boy down on the cold wooden floor, he used his wand to carefully cut the rest of his tattered shirt from his frame, exposing the multitude of cuts and scrapes the boy had gathered in the fight for his life. Though not the Healer that Madame Pomfrey was, Dumbledore was fairly accomplished as a field medic from his younger days, and with his arsenal of magic, was able to make short work of the major damage. Unfortunately, it looked as if some of the wounds had been aggravated by the constant motion that Harry must’ve been in. Madame Pomfrey would have to see to those as all of the available tears that Fawkes had at the moment would be going into the potion.

Another flick and his personal cauldron appeared from the depths of his office, already starting to heat over a white fire. Several flicks later and his potions kit, appeared as knives began to cut bits and pieces of this and that and tossing them in at the right intervals. Dumbledore took this brief moment to fully survey the young man that lay before him and sighed at the revelations.

Harry was skinny, as if his last true meal had been a long time in coming. He had lost a lot of blood, and that would have to be seen to, but if Dumbledore’s elixir didn’t work, then the loss of blood would hardly matter. With that thought, Dumbledore shifted gears and shed his outer cloak. He would need to be careful from this point on as the elixir that he was preparing could be extremely dangerous if he even made a simple mishap.

He stirred the cauldron carefully six times counter-clockwise with a foot long stick made of pure silver. Next, he sprinkled in some of the dried unicorn blood and followed that by stirring the cauldron ten times clockwise with another foot-long stick, this one made of gold. He motioned to Fawkes, who fluttered over and dropped exactly ten tears into the concoction before gliding back over to Harry to continue his vigil. Dumbledore continued to stir, wait, stir some more, and wait until the allotted time before he added the second to last bit of the potion; his blood. With an exceedingly sharp dagger that he always carried on his person, he took the blade and sliced it across his left hand. Carefully, he dropped in ten large drops from his hand into the cauldron, changing the color of the potion to a bright emerald color.

With a quick flick of his wand, he healed the cut and set about the other part of the ritual until the potion was ready for the very last ingredient. Carefully, he drew a glowing triangle around Harry Potter. Once completed, and making sure that Harry was well within the triangle, he drew a glowing circle within the first shape. Finally, he took Harry’s wand, which had been loosely held in his fingers since the battle and laid it on the boy’s chest, directly below a scar that Dumbledore theorized came from another Killing Curse.

Stepping back, he examined his work, and seeing that it was nearly perfect, let out a sigh of relief. Dumbledore could not remember the last time that his body wanted to shake as much as it did right now. To him, this was more than simply saving a life. He knew that saving this life could save millions of lives down the road. He knew too that if anyone deserved to live, it was the young man that lay on the floor in front of him. Distantly, he heard the sounds of others in the house, perceivably going about the task that he set for them.

“ _Fundamenta montium conturbata.”_ Dumbledore incanted. A brief flash of light illuminated the room as the spell took its course. The spell that Dumbledore incanted was an older spell that he had found during his research. Incanting it allowed for no one to be able to locate him specifically, with either magical or mundane means. It was easily broken of course, but he doubted anyone in the house knew about the spell in the first place. He secured the door itself with a simple locking spell that he put his full intent into. _No one_ would be entering the room any time soon.

Thirsty seconds later, he was standing over the potion once again. This time his left hand grasped the ring that set on his right hand. The ring base, while ordinary was simply a way to easily carry around the jewel, which was the most important. The stone was a dull red, but when the light reflected from it, it shined with a ferocious red, or more aptly a _rosso corsa_. In his hand he held a shard of the Sorcerer’s Stone.

**********

Harry stood stock still as his heart raced at what he estimated to be a million miles per minute. Standing in front of him was his mother and father. He could _see_ them, and if he fantasized about it he could _smell_ the perfume of his mother. She was beautiful. His father was still as handsome as his pictures had alluded to. They were standing before, and in his shock he didn’t speak for nearly a minute. He literally stood there smiling and crying. Well, it was far crying than smiling, but his heart was happy.

Numbly, he walked forward at the same time that his parents did. The family met in the middle and collapsed into a hug. They stood that way for several moments before they all tearfully pulled away. There was a moment of silence before anyone touched the nerve to spoke Harry only had one question.

“How?” He asked tearfully.

“Honestly, we don’t know,” His father replied. “This may hurt son, but we don’t want to be here right now.”

The last statement caught Harry by surprise and felt like a hammer blow to his chest His breath caught in his chest and the tears that he had so recently wiped away, threatened to burst forth again. _‘Even my own parents don’t want me.’_ Harry thought in panic.

“James,” Lilly admonished, smacking him in the back of the head. “Harry, sweetheart, _of course_ we want to be here with _you_. But being here _with_ you means that you are dead, or dying. We _don’t_ want that at all. We want you to live. Harry, you deserve to live.” Lily spoke with conviction. She shot a glare at her husband who could only return a sheepish grin.

“Why am I here?” Harry asked. He still didn’t even know where _here_ was.

“Er, I wish we had a name for it, or even a location. For the most part, some people get the choice to go back, to finish what they started,” James spoke. “Some people can’t go back. Then, there are those that choose to go back for whatever reason, and they become the ghosts of the world. Essentially they feel that they have unfinished business. Then, there’s a third group of people, a much smaller percentage of the population that will be offered a choice to return fully to their lives. As corny as it may sound, we call them the Choosers.”

“Why me?” Harry asked. He was starting to understand what his father was getting at.

“From what we know, and understand, and from the cleverness of the beautiful witch next to me, we can only guess,” James started, not wanting to feel as if he was lying to his son. “We think it has something to do with the prophecy between you and Voldemort. Though, Bellatrix was his minion, she wasn’t ordered by him to pursue you. In fact, he’s a bit enraged about it. He has some sort of fixation with taking you out himself. So, because it wasn’t sanctioned by Voldemort, you _technically_ did not die by his hand.”

“So, I’m alive, sorta, because of a prophecy?” Harry asked. His mother was the one to respond to him.

“Well, that a bit of the protection that was left when we sacrificed ourselves. It helped too, that Petunia wasn’t too far away from you. Her proximity is likely the reason that you were truly allowed to make it here, where you can make the choice. Because of it and your own magic, your body wasn’t too badly damaged. Any wounds can be healed with time.” Lily spoke, running her thumb over his scar.

“You have to go back son. You’re far too young. Believe it or not, there is so much more for you to live for. Yes, there’s Voldemort, but there’s also Hermione, Ron, the rest of the Weasleys, Hogwarts, and Hermione. In a lesser extent, there is the potential of saving countless lives just by your presence.” James spoke up.

“But… I want to stay here with you guys,” Harry started, confused as to why he would leave the happiness and comfort of his parents and not catching on that his father had mentioned his best friend twice. “I don’t like it there.”

“We know son. We know. And yet, all of us Potters have existed to protect, and to defend. Even when our line was once called Gryffindor,” James spoke up. “Yes, we are his descendants.”

“We want to see you and spend time with you. For us, as parents that is, it is enough to know that you are _not_ here with us. It is enough for us to know that as long as you are alive, you have a fighting chance. Your life matters Harry. You must believe that.” Lilly spoke, glancing to her husband as he nodded at her words.

“The choice is yours though son. We will support you either way of course.” James spoke.

Harry’s mind was reeling. Here he was, standing and talking to his parents, and yet couldn’t enjoy it because of a damned prophecy.

“What would happen if I didn’t go back?” Harry asked, concerned about his friends.

“We have no clear way of knowing,” Lily began, but Harry could tell that she had more to say. “But what we can guess at is that your loss weakened the magical world considerably. Hogwarts wouldn’t last much longer. Dumbledore would likely succumb to a powerful grief that would slowly rob him of his magic. He’d still be very powerful, but no longer a match for Voldemort. Your friends… Harry, your friends wouldn’t make it without you.”

“And if I go back? How can one person make such a difference?!” Harry spoke, starting to hyperventilate.

_‘_ The deep voice sounded again. The Potters collectively looked around, with the older pair sharing a grim smile.

“We don’t have much time son.” James spoke.

 “You probably wouldn’t realize it Harry, but for the majority of the wizarding population, you are a source of inspiration. Yes, the papers write disgusting articles about you. But, for the most part, you give people hope. You take that away, and Voldemort wins.” Lily continued.

“So I have to go back then?” Harry asked. There didn’t seem to be much choice to go otherwise.

“Yes. No. The decision is yours. You have lived a fairly selfless life, and have done incredible good. If you go back, don’t let the world change you.”

“Can I spend a few more minutes with you, please?” Harry asked quietly.

“Of course honey! We’ll still be with you, in your heart.” Lily responded, wrapping her son in her arms again.

“I- I’m… so sorry about Sirius. I was stupid and he got killed for it. I know you can’t forgive m-.” Harry started. His mother gave him a sad smile as James patted him heavily on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it son. You did what you could with the information that you had at the time. You did something brave and noble. In fact, Sirius himself doesn’t even blame you. We’ve seen him. He still loves you very much. No one can blame you for caring enough to go after your Godfather. That’s what we do for those that we love.” James said wisely.

**********

Albus Dumbledore was finally at the next stage of the ritual. He had carefully drawn 101 runes on Harry’s upper body, using the potion as an ink of sorts. As soon as the last rune was done, they started to glow a brilliant white collectively. The rest of the potion, he carefully drank himself, not even grimacing at the awful taste. His body has responded immediately. If he had a mirror, he would have noticed that his pupils had turned the purest of whites. He did notice, however, the eyes of Fawkes turning a bright white.

Less than a dozen miles away, in the Department of Mysteries located within the Ministry of Magic, a bright white light began to shine from under a door that was kept locked at all times. A low humming could be heard on the inside, sounding suspiciously like the phoenix song.

Back at Grimmauld Place, Dumbledore was preparing for the very final step; the incantation. Without prompting, Fawkes starting to sing beautifully, perhaps the most beautiful song that he had ever heard from the phoenix. At the rise of the second note, the runes around Harry began to pulse extremely brightly.

_‘Merlin help me.’_ Dumbledore thought furiously, as he began his methodical chanting.

_“_ _Ut daret spiritum mortuis. Perduc animam de profundo.”_ Dumbledore’s deep voice rattled off the string of Latin flawlessly. Despite having never practiced it, the need for him to be perfect outweighed his fears of mispronouncing a word.

He continued his mutterings of the phrases, his words coming at nearly in intelligible blur. Before he knew it, he entered a trance-like stance, and the view around him shifted. No longer did he only see the old and dingy walls of Grimmauld place, but his vision began to take in the unseen as well. He could now see very magic that permeated the walls of the home, a sort of pale gray. His phoenix was a brilliant orange-red color, and it reminded him of Fawkes’ burning days. Harry, on the other hand was a deep black. It was as if his dying was literally draining the ambient in his surroundings.

He began to slowly increase his awareness. If he were right about Lily’s protections, then Harry’s essence should not be too far away from his body.

**********

“Harry our time is coming short here. Someone on the other side is calling for you, extending themselves very deeply in order to try to save you.” James spoke, looking off into the distance. Harry looked to his mom once more.

“I love you sweetheart. I love you so very much, and I don’t want you to ever forget that.” Lily said, his green eyes filled with comfort and affection.

“I love you too mum.” Harry responded, choking up as he drew his mother into a deep hug. He then turned and looked towards his father.

“Son, you’re already a better man that I could ever dreamed of. I am proud of you and I love you. Don’t sell yourself short, ever. And son, don’t forget to love.” James spoke. His words made Harry’s heart swell. He embraced his father for what may be the last time for a long time. After a moment, Lily joined the hug and held them both closely. After only a few short seconds, Harry’s head perked up.

“What is that?” Harry asked. It sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place the source of it.

“That, Harry, is the sound of your way home.” Lily pronounced, if a touch sadly.

**********

Faintly, Dumbledore could hear the sound of his phoenix coursing through his very being. He knew that the phoenix itself allowed for the soul to be calmed if it was in an agitated state. The ritual itself was mostly used by True Seers in order to consult with past relatives, or in some cases, ease a soul into the afterlife. The trance-like state was essentially used in order anchor one’s soul. The potion, coupled with the runes that Dumbledore had drawn on Harry marked the body as the home of the soul; otherwise, it was very possible for Harry not to be able to find himself. Dumbledore had linked himself to the wards of Hogwarts, things of immense power that were more than up to the task of anchoring his own soul as he went off in search of Harry’s.

From some prior research done nearly a lifetime before, Dumbledore knew and understood the nuances of searching for a soul. Being magical, it was an extremely tedious task for one to locate and communicate with a lost soul. The point of the ritual, then, was to put the souls on an equal footing so to speak.

Generally speaking, as long as it was done correctly, the connection of the blood runes that Dumbledore drew on harry and the blood sacrifice that he gave of himself, created a link between them. The point of the link was often referred to as _talon de Aquiles_ or more simply, The Heel of Achilles; named after the famed warrior that was once said to be unbeatable. This link, though, was of pure magic, and the weakness came as a result of the different types of magic involved in establishing said link. Where they met, a beacon of sorts formed.  


Such a beacon had formed for Albus Dumbledore, and with it he began making short work of traveling to his destination, uncertain of what he would find. As he traveled – for that was likely the best way to describe his form of movement – he reflected on what he may have to say in order to convince Harry to come back. Or, perhaps, to even convince Harry that coming back was even possible. He had entertained the idea of using Harry’s protectiveness over his friends, or the fact that Harry did not like to run away from situations. But as his mind automatically took him through the scenarios of Harry’s response, he realized that he likely wouldn’t get very far. Indeed, it was likely that Harry would choose to go further away as opposed to attempting to come back. Life, after all, had not treated the young man kindly.

Another thought in his mind was the sheer vastness of the location. The afterlife, for essentially, that is what it would be called, had no sense of direction. Generally, most wizards had a general sense of what direction they were heading in, and in some case, how fast they were going. And yet, in this very place there was no such sensation. Even the _Tempore Sensu_ , or his ability to sense the time of day was not working correctly in this world.

To Albus, it was quite fascinating.

Having no conceptions of speed, direction, or even the time, Dumbledore suddenly found himself much closer to the actual beacon. At the end of his travels, he suddenly had three extremely familiar people appear in front of him.

“Hello Albus.” The spectral voice of Lily Potter spoke, her words floating on the winds of magic.

“Lily, so great to see you again. And you James. I have missed you both terribly.” Dumbledore spoke softly. “I wish, though, that such a meeting was under different circumstances.” He continued, turning his gaze to Harry Potter.

“Yeah, my son is dead. I don’t like that.” James snarled, though none of the anger was aimed at the venerable wizard.

“The fact that you are here has given us hope Albus. Have you found a way?” Lily asked, absently reaching over to rub the arm of her husband. Her son was still quiet for the moment. Dumbledore nodded in response to her question.

“Indeed I have. I am uncertain of how much time we have, or if there even is such a thing as time in this place. I do know though, that the link and the beacon will not be strong for long,” He spoke, pausing once he realized what he had to say next. “As such, we must make haste if we are to make it.”

James turned towards Harry and appeared to look him deeply in the eye. Dumbledore noted the stillness of Harry, and the unseeing eyes that were lost as the boy searched for a hidden meaning within his thoughts. Without warning, Dumbledore watched Harry roughly shake his head and release a deep sigh.

“I’m ready to go back.” Harry spoke, his voice hoarse. Inwardly, Dumbledore sagged with relief. He wasn’t relieved that Harry had made the decision to return, but more so that a decision had been made at all. The choice between reuniting with his parents and going back to a world where was not tolerated had to have been an increasingly difficult one. Dumbledore knew and realized that the road ahead for Harry Potter would not be an easy one but would be full of death, tragedy, and immense pain. More than that, Dumbledore knew that Harry would be making a lot of difficult choices and personal sacrifices.

“Let’s go Professor.” Harry said, turning his back on his parents and not bothering to look back. Dumbledore knew that the young man before him needed to not look back in order to save his strength.

“Grab a hold of my arm Harry. I am not sure what it is that you should expect on your end, but be at ease, I will be guiding you. From my perspective, I can see a guiding beam that will lead us back to our bodies. From my research a lifetime ago, there was a general consensus that there was little to no pain in the process. More than that, Harry, they say it may take you a while to get used to your body and your magic again. Are you ready to return my dear boy?” Dumbledore asked, looking kindly over his half-moon glasses. There was silence from the boy to begin, but he finally responded to the question.

“Yes sir. I think I’m ready.”

_‘_ _Ut daret spiritum mortuis. Perduc animam de profundo.’_ A deep voice spoke again.

“Ahh, nearly perfect timing Harry. The spell that I incanted is nearing completion.” Dumbledore said, his voice tinged with relief. He had managed to forcefully evict any thought of the “failed” experiments with this very ritual.

“Professor, before we go back, I need you to make me a promise.” Harry said, speaking on a sudden influx of inspiration that had flooded him.

“If it is within my power, then it is yours.” Dumbledore responded, smiling kindly at the young man before him.

“I want you to promise that there will be no more secrets. I want you to promise that if it pertains to me, that you will tell me. Keep in mind, I am the one that has to end this war, it makes sense if I am to know as much as possible.” Harry spoke. Dumbledore mulled over his options for only the briefest of moments.

“Harry, if it does not conflict with any of the other promises that I have made, then the information will be yours.” He finally responded. He couldn’t very well go back on his word to one person just to keep a promise to Harry. He did, however, understand the need for information. It was hard to fight a battle if you had no information regarding it.

“Thank you Professor. Let’s go home.” Harry spoke after a moment of silence.

Dumbledore stood silent, waiting for the ebb in the magic permeating around him that would announce the next passing of the incantation. For the return trip, he had to time this perfectly.

_“_ _Ut daret spiritum mortuis. Perduc animam de profundo.”_ Dumbledore heard and spoke at the exact same time.

 

And then, there was blackness.

 

 

                                        

*AN*

Translations:

Ut daret spiritum mortuis . Perduc animam de profundo. (Give breath to the dead. Bring this soul from the depths.)

 


	7. Awaken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably note that my story is character driven. Yes, there will be awesome and epic duels, but a great deal of the action comes from the characters, and how they interact with one another. In some ways, it'll advance the plot. In others, it'll show us an event that happened away from the main story live, but that is connected. Here is such a chapter. Forgive my procrastination.

The resounding sound of skin touching skin, at a high speed, echoed in the chamber. The spectators winced involuntarily, but did not move an inch. They knew that much worse than a backhand to the face was in store for them should they attract attention. Everyone loved a show up until the moment they were the actual entertainment.

It was, though, an awesome sight. Slight of build, and magically powerful, no one expected the Dark Lord to physically punish his followers. And yet, when he did, it was more fearsome that him waving his wand in your direction. His magical aura reeked through the dilapidated warehouse that they were occupying for the time being. His anger, always fierce, was a storm that seemed to forever be at its crescendo. His blood red eyes glowed brilliantly in the darkness of the room; he resembled something from a children’s story used to terrify. Instead, he was worse. He made grown men and women tremble with fear, to toss and turn at night and that was with just the mere mention of his name.

When this barbaric anger was directed at a person directly, there were few that could survive. Albus Dumbledore was an easy guess, and recently Harry Potter seemed to have been invited into the same exclusive circle. Aside from those two individuals, no one else seemed to stand a chance against the Dark Lord. The situation became worse if he felt the need to personally intervene. It was fabled that he was a ruthless dueler, and coupling his magic with his knowledge was a nearly unbeatable combination. It was fabled, of course, because most of the people that he had ever dueled did not live to tell their story. Lord Voldemort was a legend in and of himself.

Marcus Willemstyn, one of the surviving members of the party led by Bellatrix, let the blood flow from the gash on his cheek. To wipe it off would be a sign of disrespect to the Dark Lord, and he did not want the Dark Lord to focus on him. Though the physical backhand to the face was painful, it honestly paled in the face of the Cruciatus Curse, at least to Marcus. It meant that he would, at the very least, be able to sleep painlessly tonight, and not have to beg Severus for a potion to numb the pain. He as watched the Dark Lord pace soundlessly in the large room through lowered eyes, interested in what would happen next. With the Dark Lord, no one truly knew what to expect.

“Bellatrix, I am disappointed in you.” In six words, the Dark Lord had made the normally fearless Deatheater turn an impressive white. Many of the Deatheaters would’ve laughed, had it not been Bellatrix that was the victim. In her own way, she was sadistic in her methods of revenge.

“And yet,” The Dark Lord continued, his voice changing to one of an inquiring tone, “you say the boy is dead?”

“Yes, My Lord. I sent the final spell myself.” Bellatrix responded, possibly hoping to gain some favor. Willemstyn didn’t think it was likely, but the Dark Lord always seemed to have a soft spot for his top Death Eater.

“I do not believe that the Potter boy is an easy kill. He has powerful magic about him, and there is always a way.” The Dark Lord seemed to whisper.

“But, my lord I –“ Bellatrix began when the Dark Lord cut her off.

“Silence. It is most fortunate that this allows me to accelerate plans in other facets. You may have bought me some much needed time. Because of that, I give you your life.” The sorcerer responded. Willemstyn watched as Bellatrix immediately dropped to her knees and offered her thanks which his master seemed to relish a great deal.

“Thank you My Lord, you are most gracious.”

“Yes, yes I am. My Death Eaters, set about your tasks. Wormtail, attend me.” The Dark Lord spoke after a short period of silence.

Willemstyn kept his head bowed as he forced his body to a slow pace and finally escaped the room with his life. He had to make his way home, recover from the battle with Harry Potter, and yet still be in his assigned place for the missions the Dark Lord had created. He didn’t have much time, and with upon reaching the Apparition point, he disappeared with a loud  _ CRACK _ .

**********

It was a very exhausted Albus Dumbledore that exited the room. Even Fawkes, his powerful companion looked weary and drained. The amount of power that had been flowing through the room during the ritual had been intense and felt by every magic user in the house. The wards on the property itself had been thoroughly tested as they fought to disperse the magic. As it was, on the outside of the home, a small blackout had occurred as the magic had leaked out and fritzed many of the nearby homes.

For the first time in what may be a lifetime to some, Albus Dumbledore felt the need to sleep the rest of the week away. As he pondered the tasks that he had still set before him, he concluded that he could not afford such a luxury in its entirety. He had brought Harry back from the brink, but now the challenging part would be to make sure the young man recovered fully and with no lasting effects. Yes, he had much to do.

_ ‘Good thing the Ministry never tries to track me any longer. It would take all of my influence to explain why there was the equivalent to a Muggle nuclear bomb going off in the heart of London.’  _ Dumbledore thought with an inward chuckle. Extending his senses, he found the expected occupants in the kitchen below him. It had been several hours, nearly a day in fact, since he had ventured after Harry Potter, and he knew that his friends would demand some answers. He let out an aged breath and began to descend the stairs and make his way to where he could feel the rest of the magic users in the home. The moment he walked through the doors of the kitchen, he was bombarded. He got a brief glance of Severus, Nymphadora, and Alastor before a blur of brown appeared in front of him.

“Professor Dumbledore! What happened? Where’s Harry? He’s- he’s not dead is he? Please tell me that he’s okay. I just need to know.” Hermione Granger spoke in rapid fire, her heart in her eyes.  _ ‘If only they would admit it to each other.’  _ Albus thought with an inner sigh.

“Miss Granger, the most dangerous part is behind us. Harry is extremely weak right now, and will take time to recover, even after his physical wounds are taken care of. He will be scarred, and will need space.” Dumbledore spoke, answering Hermione directly, but included the others by way of a glance.

“Albus what needs to be done?” Severus asked, not bothering to acknowledge the brief looks of bewilderment on the faces of Tonks and Mad-Eye Moody.

“He will need to be watched. His magic is fluctuating, bordering on nonexistent to God-like at times as his body recuperates. It does not help that this is very close to his 16 th birthday. As I am sure you all know, that is usually the most volatile age in the life of a young witch or wizard.” Albus continued.

“Of course,” it was Tonks turn to speak. “That’s when we go through our magical maturity, right? It’s been said that some people are susceptible to some of the worst diseases at that ages.”

“Oh. Ten points to whatever house you were in Tonks.” Severus drawled. Tonks simply stuck her tongue out at the back of the man’s head.

“You are quite right Nymphadora. For Harry, his magic will be rebuilding completely, while still growing and developing. In his condition it is even worse for him because he won’t have a baseline to automatically protect him from those same ailments.” Dumbledore spoke.

“What of me Headmaster?” Snape asked with the usual sneer in his voice. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t want to help Potter, but he knew for certain that the Dark Lord would be in a rage at the fact that not only had the boy been attacked without permission, but that he had  _ survived _ again.

“I’ll need the usual battery of potions of course, and your assistance with Madame Pomfrey on helping to repair his physical body from the litany of dark curses that he suffered from. Were it a lesser man, he would’ve succumb to those injuries alone.” Dumbledore spoke, his eyes holding those of his Potions Master.

“At once.” Came the quiet response as he immediately took off, the others soon following his lead.

“Professor, when would I be able to see him?” Hermione asked quietly, not really trusting her voice.

“Miss Granger, I am unsure of when he will awaken. I do want someone near him at all times though, just in case. With that, at the very least, please wait until the morning before you see him. I’d ask, too, that you not disturb his recovery. Should you need me, Fawkes is more than capable of bringing me here immediately.” Dumbledore spoke, looking kindly at the young witch before him. He hoped that Harry would make it through as completely as possible, and with limited repercussions. If the love of his mother could save him, then may be the love of his friends could sustain him.

“Professor, do the Weasley’s know what happened?” Hermione asked, turning her gaze on the door that housed her bestfriend.

“No, but they are my first stop and as such should be here as quickly as they possibly can. I must be going Miss Granger, I have every ounce of faith that Harry will recover.” Dumbledore spoke, before giving her his trademark twinkle and disappearing down the stairs.

**********

Hermione Granger was quiet. She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting outside of his bedroom door, waiting for the first hint of morning. She had acknowledged when a pale Ron, and an equally pale Ginny made their way to sit outside the door with her. She didn’t truly feel the hug that a tearful Molly Weasley had administered to her as she sat there in a daze.

She had seen a dead person before, having gone to the funerals of grandparents at a younger age. The magical world, too, had shown her so much death and destruction, that she was numb to some instances of it. But seeing her bestfriend sprawled with a lifeless look in those powerful green eyes was almost too much for her to bear. Her entire world had shattered at that very moment, and she knew that it would never be the same again.

“Bloody hell!” Ron muttered as Madame Pomfrey came up the stairs again. Hermione had been tuned out the first several instance when the MediWitch came by, but each time she came she was carrying more and more potions. And each time she left, she had a less than hopeful look on her face. Too, Madame Pomfrey looked exhausted.

“You children should get some sleep.” Pomfrey spoke, noticing that even after her tenth visit to this section of the house, the teens were still sitting in the same places as before.

“Madame Pomfrey, how is Harry?” Ginny asked, seemingly shocked at the sound of her own voice being so raspy and dry. The other teens near her expressed interest in the answer to the question.

“He’s alive. That’s all that matters at this stage. I am working tirelessly to repair some of the damage that could be very lasting. It is even more difficult because Mr. Potter has little to no magic of his own to help with the process.” The woman replied. Usually, she wouldn’t divulge so much information, but after seeing the scared and desperate looks of the teens before her, she knew good news was needed.

“Little to no magic?” Ron asked. “Is he a Squib now?”

“No, but his magic isn’t strong enough to feed itself yet.” Madame Pomfrey responded, eliciting some confused looks from the two Weasley’s and a nod of understanding from Hermione.

“But, what does that mean?” Ginny asked.

“It means that Harry’s magic depleted itself to save his life. And now, what little he can recuperate is immediately going to sustaining his basic body functions. If a Witch or Wizard loses their magic too suddenly, their body usually cannot handle the shock, and they die.” Hermione responded, remembering some textbook from years back.

“Correct Miss Granger. Because of the extent of his injuries and the severity of the depletion of his magic, it will take far more time than usual to get his levels to where they need to be. What’s more is that it is close to his 16 th birthday, which is when a great deal of witches and wizards begin to undergo their magical maturity. Because of his weakness, the potion usually given would do him far more harm than good.”

“So you mean that one moment he can have no magic and the next he can be fully recharged?” Hermione asked.

“Exactly. If you wish, and to give myself peace of mind, you can go in to visit him now. Do not get too close, there are some wards around him to keep his magic from flaring out. Quite frankly, though, Mr. Potter is a very powerful wizard, those wards have been tested frequently.” Madame Pomfrey spoke. She would have said more but suddenly there was Hermione Granger wrapping her into a hug.

“Thank you.” The bushy-haired teen whispered, blinking back the tears that had started to pool up.

Once inside the room, Hermione held her breath. The boy in front her looked so weak and vulnerable that it was a wonder that he was still alive. Harry lay shirtless on the makeshift bed, with heavy bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. There were various potions suspended in mid-air that seemed to drip through clear tubes and make their way into Harry’s body. She had been to Muggle hospitals before but did not know that the magical world knew how to run an IV.

“I’m unsure at this point you he can hear you all, but I wanted you to be able to see him.” Madame Pomfrey said in a near whisper.

“Thank you for letting us in to see him.” Hermione spoke, feeling a huge weight lift off over shoulders.

_ ‘Harry will make it, I know he will.’ _ Hermione thought to herself as she made her way to her bedroom on the floor below. She would be asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

**********

“Headmaster, the most pressing concerns are behind us now. His magic, despite constantly fluctuating, is stable where it is now. But,” Madame Pomfrey spoke, still busying over her patient and trusting Albus to listen to her. “I don’t think that he is going to wake up for a few days as of yet.”

The headmaster stood there, silently regarding the boy in front of him. Harry already looked better, even only having been in the room for 2 full days since the end of the ritual. Pomfrey had slowed the internal bleeding, before completely stopping it with some tricky spell work that had taken most of one of the days. The rest of that very day was spent making sure that the rest of the particles lodged within his body was carefully extracted. What was more, was that there were still some internal tears caused by the extraction that she had to go in and repair yet again.

“You never cease to amaze me Poppy,” Dumbledore spoke, catching her eyes and making a large smile come across her face, though he could see that her heart was not into it. “But I believe you have other fears that you aren’t quite so willing to share?” Dumbledore spoke, not needing Legilimency to see the concern in her eyes.

“Albus, Harry’s magic has grown,” Poppy replied. “And I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

Dumbledore looked pensive for a time, trying to consider the possible complications. His eyebrows furrowed, Dumbledore took to the habit of stroking his beard as his formidable mind raced through intricate pathways.

“Have you noticed anything different than your previous check-ups?” Dumbledore asked, aware that she kept a tight file on all of her patients, and that her memory was second to none.

“Yes, there were several attributes that I automatically credited to the Killing Curse that Mr. Potter survived. Having never seen a survivor, I did not know what else to do about some of those findings. Having checked his parents over and over again, I expected Mr. Potter to, well, to be far more powerful.” Poppy spoke, stroking the boy's hair, though she would vehemently deny that such a thing ever happened.

“And?,” Dumbledore probed. “We’ve seen cases where the child was significantly less powerful than the parents. Some genetics would even indicate that in some of the older, Pureblood families, that this was even more evident. What’s so special about Mr. Potter? We’ve witnessed him do extraordinary magic, and share no ill effect.” Dumbledore continued.

“He was far less powerful than the average would indicate. How he did any of that magic, is beyond me. I think, if anything, he had something feeding off of his magic that complicated matters.” Poppy spoke.

“Of course, it all makes sense,” Dumbledore muttered, his mind immediately running through the mazes. Unintentionally, and inexplicably, Voldemort had left a piece of himself within Harry on the night that he attacked the Potters. Dumbledore was unsure if Voldemort himself was aware of magic involved with sacrifices, or anything having to do with love as the basis. Voldemort, was likely so sure of the prophecy, that he put as much of himself into the spell as possible. From there, it was a simple matter of the magic of Lily’s sacrifice protecting Harry. And yet, it couldn’t protect him from something that was within his very own magic. The piece of Voldemort had been  _ feeding _ off of Harry for more than a decade, using his own magic and life force to survive.

 

No one, not even Dumbledore himself, would have known what to look for because the boy had been reasonably healthy, and still did fantastic magic for his young age.  _ ‘How much more could he have taken before he died as a result of losing his magic?” _ Dumbledore pondered, a bit morbidly. He wondered, too, if that would technically fulfill the prophecy that he had finally revealed to the young man. Technically, it  _ was _ a piece of Voldemort, and it  _ had _ been killing Harry. They could’ve lost the war and not even been aware of it.

 

“How could we have caught this Poppy?” Dumbledore asked.

 

“I don’t know Albus. I’ve never encountered what would technically be a magical leech. There are of course curses and potions that inhibit magic, and drain a person temporarily of their magic. But I have never, and I mean never, encountered something of this magnitude. He could’ve died Albus!” Poppy hissed, upset at herself for being out of her depth.

 

“Now now Poppy. There is nothing you could have done. Let’s thank the fates that Harry is here now, and that he is in your most excellent care.” Albus spoke. Whether he knew it or not, Voldemort had just created his worst enemy in Harry Potter.

 

He, himself would wait until Harry woke up in order to speak with him. If possible, he needed to see how the boy would respond to the sudden changes that he would be experiencing. 

 

It wasn’t a secret that most young witches and wizards grew in power as they aged. In fact, that only made sense to the researchers. What wasn’t commonly known was that it wasn’t so much that they grew in power, but that their connection to their magical core was strengthened, making spells easier to cast. The plus side of accessing more of your magical core was the familiarity with your own magic, hence the reason silent casting wasn’t taught until the N.E.W.T. years. It was simply easier to master with a strong connection, and generally more confidence. 

 

What was a secret, though, was that with every magical birth, a record was made of the child, their parents, and an estimated level of power that they were likely to attain. For obvious reasons, this was not the best way to determine how powerful a child would be. And yet, it did allow the researchers an opportunity of studying the average power levels throughout decades. What they used the information for, no one knew. The recording wasn’t foolproof. Obviously, it had limited range, so it wouldn’t reach the Americas, nor could it  _ not _ count non-human magical beings.The machine, too, could not account for the nature of the child being born. Some children easily encountered stress that did nothing but suppress their magic. Other children, however, were in environments where their magic could thrive.

 

Researchers thought that this was why, despite being more powerful on average, Muggleborns struggled mightily in the wizarding world whereas their Pureblood counterparts thrived. It didn’t help that there were laws in place that empowered the Purebloods to circumvent the law in order to allow their children to actually practice magic.

 

While a secret, Dumbledore was one of the few people within and outside of the Ministry that knew it existed, and knew the location of it. For ages, he had studied it, trying to make sense of it himself. What he knew, and understood, was that he needed to check it to see if it would record the changes that Harry had recently went through.

 

Once Harry woke up, he would do some research and try to understand what had happened to the boy, who, not too long ago, was dead. It could take a few days, but it was imperative that he find the information before anyone else did.

 

**********

 

_ ‘Wake up my son.’ _

 

He blearily opened his eyes, suppressing the urge to groan as the sunlight assaulted his visual senses. It was morning, he could tell that much. Even without his glasses though, he could still make out the form of Albus Dumbledore.

“Ah, Harry, words cannot express how relieved I am to see you awake and well.” Dumbledore spoke. Harry was busy shaking the grogginess out of his head and didn’t bother to reply immediately.

“Funny that, coming back from the dead doesn’t seem to feel as awesome as I thought it would.” Harry said bitterly. Dumbledore seemed to pale at this, looking older than Harry had ever seen him look before.

“We’re still looking into seeing how that could’ve been avoided and prevented at any cost.” Dumbledore, with Harry nodding along gathering his thoughts.

“Well, it could’ve been worse right?” Harry replied again, this time sitting up in the bed as he found a well of hidden strength within him. He worked his flimsy Occlumency shields overtime in order to try to suppress the various aches and pains that littered his frame. Not only did it make him ignore the pain, but it helped him to avoid lashing out at Dumbledore at this precise moment.

“Harry, surely that attitude is unnecessary, we were and are only always trying to protect you. If anything -” Dumbledore started. He was nearly into his next sentence when Harry lost it. So much had been building up for so long that he finally needed a release. 

“You can’t keep sheltering me Professor! Not while I am at the very center of this war. It’s not fair for me. The war finds me anyway, and I need to be prepared. I need to be able to fight. I need to know how. I need to learn to live. I can’t do that if you continue to do this thing you call protecting me.” Harry stood, his jaw clenching as he fought to ignore the physical pain from his wounds and the even deeper pain that his mentor did not seem to trust his abilities. Dumbledore himself looked taken aback at the harshness of Harry’s tone.

“Harry – you must understand –“ Dumbledore started, but was cut off harshly by the young man in front of him.

“No! I refuse to understand! I refuse to understand this idea of the  _ greater good _ by  _ me _ sacrificing. I want to be able to go to the park! I want to be able to hang out with my friends! I want to be able to leave this damn prison!” Harry spoke heatedly. He took a breath to try to calm himself. “Professor – Albus, I appreciate everything that you have done for me. But, there is a difference in being alive and living. They are not necessarily the same. I appreciate you professor, Merlin knows that I do. I look up to you, hell most of the wizarding world does!” Harry continued, pausing to gather his thoughts, noting that his use of the Headmaster’s first name received a swiftly raised eyebrow.

“But sir, I can no longer be blinded by the Dumbledore on a Chocolate Frog card. Protecting me may seem like the very best thing to do, but sometimes protecting me will mean helping me to protect myself. At the end of the day, I have to kill Voldemort, not you. I have to try to destroy that monster! I need your help to do that.”

“Is that really what you want Harry? Not a childhood?” Dumbledore inquired, having felt the sting of each and every one of Harry’s words. 

“Does it look like I can have a childhood? What I can have, and what I crave is to be able to live. I can’t seem to do that either unfortunately,” Harry breathed. He knew what he needed, and in some way how to get it. “I want a  _ chance  _ to live. To be respected. You can’t expect me to save the damn world, but keep me hidden away from it. Am I some sort of sacrifice to you?” Harry asked, the hurt obvious in his question.

“Never!” Dumbledore spoke heatedly as he shot to his feet, a stark contrast from his usual mild baritone. It was likely one of the first times that Harry had witnessed the Dumbledore’s anger directed at him. In that very moment, he knew  _ why _ Voldemort feared the man. He stood tall, powerful and proud and secure in his power. Even more, his brilliant blue eyes held a ferociousness that nearly made Harry take a step back from the man in front of him. Instead, he mustered his resolve and held his place, feeling his body tense as if a fight was expected. 

“You have a tough time showing that.” Harry dared to speak. “I’m sorry professor; I  _ know _ that you care about me. Everyone in the school thinks I’m your favorite. I just need you to consider  _ me _ , the person, for once. Ask me what  _ I _ want, or what  _ I _ think. I may not be as wise or as smart, but I deserve to have a say. My life is at stake!” Harry spoke further, watching as the man across from him let out a deep breath. Dumbledore seemed to deflate in front of his very eyes, once more returning the venerable man Harry was used to.

“I have been blinded Harry, I can admit that. Know that everything that I have ever put you through has been because I had your best interest at heart, and I wanted to protect you and shelter you in a way.” Dumbledore started, his eyes holding sincerity. “And yet, I feel that because I cared so much for you, that it did indeed blind me to all that was going on in your life, and all of the pain that you went through. You have suffered a great deal because of me and I do not know how you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

“I don’t know Professor. I’m willing to try. I don’t need or want to know you entire plan. But by Merlin, I believe I need to know enough so that I’m not completely blind going into a situation. I’m at the center of this war, and have been for my entire life, before I even knew  _ who _ I was. What kind of life is that to live?” Harry asked. Knowing that all he really wanted was a proper chance.

“What would life have been like for you then Harry?” Dumbledore inquired, startling Harry with the question. Harry racked his brain for a response but before he could respond, Dumbledore spoke again. “Do you think you’d have the same survival instincts? That you’d have the same quality of friends that you do now? Do you think that you’d be as strong as you are now? You’d have had a  _ perfect _ life only for it to have been shattered the first time that Voldemort attacked you.”

“So my being abused was worth it to you?” Harry asked, struggling to comprehend how his Headmaster, his mentor, could see him as some sort of sacrifice.

“No, but your safety was. A week after Halloween, some rogue Deatheaters had managed to find out that you lived in Surrey. They came there, but the wards were so fresh, and so powerful, that they were unable to make it within 10 miles of you. The wards are based towards those with the intention to harm you and harbored the love of your mother, an infinitely powerful source of protection. Even to this day, as you grow older and your own magic grows phenomenally, it is likely the best form of protection that you will ever have.  _ That _ is what I weighed for you. Should I leave you with a family that may not be able to protect you, or send you somewhere where your safety, more or less, would be guaranteed?” Dumbledore spoke. Harry racked his brain for an appropriate response, but could not fight the embarrassed look on his face.

“I didn’t think of it that way sir. I’m sorry.” Harry spoke. 

“What are you apologizing for Harry? I, being the seemingly wise one here, should have known that you were far more mature that even I gave you credit. There are so many places where I went wrong with you, thinking you fragile, and only thinking of protecting you from outside influences. I never would’ve imagined that I’d be the cause of some of your other pains.” Dumbledore stated, looking Harry in the eye. 

“I will admit to not truly being ready for the prophecy after my first year. But, after my second year, surely you had to have known that my life would be far from ordinary. Hell, professor, I had proven myself over and over again. Instead, you waited until  _ after _ I had been tricked into going to the Ministry. You waited until  _ after _ I had lost my Godfather. You waited until  _ after _ everything had happened to let me know why you decided to allow Snape of all people to brutally rape my mind, over and over again!” Harry stated, started heatedly and nearing a volcanic eruption towards the end. Each sentence seemed to weigh the Headmaster down a bit more. 

“Harry, I --” Dumbledore started but was cut off again by the Boy-Who-Lived.

“I can’t immediately forgive you for those things, especially because you knew well in advance. Even more hurtful is the fact that you knew Voldemort was back after my 4th year! An entire year later, and I’m fighting him once more. Was that not further proof that he would stop at nothing to try to get to me?” Harry spoke, having to reign himself in with a supreme effort of sheer will. Dumbledore was eyeing him warily from the other side of the room. 

Harry closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing. He was still in pain, having just woken up earlier that day. His head still hurt, as he had yet to touch any of the Potions left for him, certain that there was a Dreamless Sleep potion littered in there somewhere. 

There was silence between the two wizards for a long moment as Harry thought deeply about some of the things that the venerable Headmaster could’ve hidden from him. More importantly, Harry started to think of the results of the lack of some of this communication, and how he himself could have been far more careful in regards to his own safety and negligence of the school rules. That got him to thinking of all of the times he had been caught out of bounds.

_ “How had Dumbledore found me all of those times. It all seemed so convenient.”  _ Harry pondered, glancing at the man in the room with him, and seeing him likewise in his own thoughts.

“You’ve been following me.” Harry said aloud suddenly after having bits and pieces of different conversations come back to him. Dumbledore always had the knowing twinkle in his eye, and often said that he did not need an invisibility cloak to become invisible. “Or, you’ve had me followed, or monitored, even before Voldemort came back. Why?” Harry questioned.

“Honestly, I needed to see how you were coping with a new life for my own eyes. To go from a most pitiful predicament to one where you have, essentially, a whole new world to explore would be devastating for some. Admittedly, I wanted to see how you’d react to your fame, and the potential dangers and downfalls that could come from it. Harry,” Dumbledore paused here, and Harry looked him in his eye. “You have never ceased to amaze me. Everything that you have been through, suffered and overcame is much more than many, if not most, adults would be capable of accomplishing.”

“I don’t feel like it.” Harry spoke bitterly, his eyes drawn to his tattered socks.  _ ‘I really need to go shopping.’ _ He thought with a small grin.

“Well, I’d hazard a guess that it is difficult to see yourself from the perspective of other individuals.” Dumbledore mused with a grin. Harry’s grin in response was fleeting as his mind posed another question to him.

“Professor, during my first year, when you caught me at the Mirror of Erised,” Harry began, easily getting the attention of his Headmaster. “You told me that when you looked into the mirror, that you saw yourself holding a pair of socks. I didn’t believe it then. But, I was too scared to ask you what you actually saw.”

“And you wish to know now?” Dumbledore asked, his voice had a hint of  _ something _ that Harry just couldn’t place.

“Yes sir.”

“I see  _ my _ family in the Mirror of Erised,” Dumbledore spoke, somberly. “I see my mother and my younger sister, both of whom are now deceased.”

Harry was at a loss for words, curious beyond belief and yet wanting to respect the secrets that Dumbledore kept. It was obvious to Harry, from the tone of voice no less, that this was a topic that had caused Dumbledore to have a great deal of stress and sorrow built up.

“Sir… what happened?” 

“Harry, the Dumbledore family has always been extremely powerful. My sister was monstrously powerful, but she was young and was unaware of exactly what she was capable of. She didn’t know how to control it. We tried, very hard, to keep her away from the outside world. We lived in a mixed Muggle and Wizard village, and most of the wizarding world kept a fairly low profile at this time, content to be in our own world, sheltered from the rest.” Dumbledore spoke slowly, not seeing Harry despite facing him directly. Harry had a feeling that he was taking himself back to the very moment.

“There was one summer day where she ventured out of the house, and started doing a slight bit of magic. Unfortunately, some Muggle boys saw her and attacked her. They beat her savagely, Harry. She barely survived. How she managed to cling onto life, we’ll never know. She was found, and returned to our home. Our father was enraged, the most I have ever seen him so. He found all of the muggle boys responsible and punished them, severely, and with magic. The Ministry found out of course, snapped his wand, and shipped him off to Azkaban, where he would die in the years to come. Therefore it was up to my mother, myself, and Aberforth to look after a young woman who was mostly incoherent, unable to control her magic, and had no will to do so. It was, quite frankly, a frustrating time.” Dumbledore spoke gravely. Harry imagined that he saw silvery tears streaking the aged man’s face.

“Professor you don’t -” Harry began but was cut off as Dumbledore began to speak again.

“Harry, I was ashamed of her. I slowly distanced myself away, going about trying to be brilliant and change the world. I met another young wizard by the name of Gellert and we became fast friends, almost immediately. We pushed each other, you see. At a young age, I wanted power, more than anything else. We had a plan to subjugate the Muggle world, for what we called the greater good. We wanted to run the world so to speak. 

While I was away on one such journey, gathering support and increasing my powers, my mother and brother were at home trying to keep a broken family together. My mother supported my ambition, I’d like to believe, but she always felt that my place was at home, caring for my sister. Aberforth, on the other hand, was a bit more vocal in his opinion,” Here Dumbledore chuckled a bit, a sad laugh that made Harry’s heart ache. “And yet, there I was, thinking that everything would work itself out. Do you know what happened while I was away Harry?” Dumbledore asked.

“No, I don’t sir.” Harry responded quietly. Thinking that he had heard the name Gellert at one point or another in his time in the magical world. 

“My sister had one of her huge magical outburst and the backlash killed my mother. And so, I hated her, with such passion, because I knew then that I would have to come home and help. I would have to sacrifice so much for someone who didn’t know the value or understand the purpose of what I wanted to pursue. And I dedicated the time. I knew that the experience could certainly help to propel my aims. See, even in my most giving of moments, I was selfish. Harry, I admit to always being a big planner, even a manipulator of some sort. As I’ve aged, I’ve only gotten better at it.”

“But there’s more isn’t there Professor?” Harry asked, getting the feeling that an even sadder moment was coming.

“Yes,” Dumbledore started, as if gathering strength. “One day, Gellert came to visit, having run into some snags with one of the plans that we were developing. During this visit a very heated argument between myself, Gellert, and Aberforth happened. It resulted in wands being drawn and spells being fired. Unbeknownst to us, my sister wandered into the middle of it. To this day, we do not know who or what, but that was the last day that she would be alive. One, or maybe a combination, of our spells hit her and she was killed. In just a few short years, I had lost nearly my entire family. This was nearly a lifetime ago, for most people. Generations have come and gone, and I have labored with the thought that I ruined my family,” Dumbledore spoke, taking a moment to catch his breath and to compose himself. “Of course Gellert disappeared, and I wouldn’t run into him again many years later, and he was a different person then.”

“Why does Gellert sound so familiar?” Harry asked aloud. 

“Gellert Grindewald. You may have heard of him.” Dumbledore spoke.

“You were  _ friends _ with Grindewald before you two dueled?” Harry questioned, his mind racing. Did this mean that Dumbledore had a soft side for the man before they did battle. From what he could remember from his “studies” (whenever he actually took the time to read), Grindewald had a reign of terror that spanned for many years before he was defeated. From all reports, the duel had been quite spectacular and had raged for many hours, leveling towns and decimating cities along the way. A testament to the sheer power of the two wizards was evident from old photographs.

“Yes. I had avoided confrontation with him for quite some time because I didn’t feel as if I was ready. It was not for lack of power, as I had always been the better dueler by a small margin. It was, if anything Harry, a lack of faith in myself. I was afraid at that time that in a contest between the two of us, that I’d learn exactly what happened the day that my sister died. I was, and still am not, prepared for such a moment.” Dumbledore responded, emotion still etched in his face.

“I’m sorry Professor. It must have been very difficult for you.” Harry replied, knowing he could never see himself killing any of his friends.

“Yes. Gellert had good intentions at one point, but it is so very easy to justify your actions behind those good intentions, without seeing the bigger picture. Remember this Harry, if nothing else; the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I have, unfortunately, been on that path with you,” Dumbledore spoke. “Alas, I am not here to salve your wounds with tales of my past, though it has been most relieving to speak to you about such things. I wondered, and forgive me if I am overstepping, if you’d mind sharing the memory of the battle with me?”

“For your penseive, or through Legilimency? Harry replied after giving it a quick thought. It wouldn’t hurt anything for him to share the information with Dumbledore.

“I can make a copy of it for my pensieve, and that will allow you to retain the information as I study it and develop a lesson plan of sorts for training you. It’ll help me to see how much and what you know already and whether or not, I’ll need to approach topics in a certain manner.”

“Of course, sir. Er, how exactly do I draw out the memory?” Harry asked sheepily. He had never been too good at the mind arts, as evident in his atrocious Occlumency skills, though Snape had plenty of blame there as well. 

“Quite simple actually. You want to bring the complete memory to the forefront of your mind, and  _ want _ to transfer it to the very tip of your wand. From there, I will do the rest.”

It took Harry several tries, but he was finally able to pull the memory from his head with the tip of his wand. He was elated. Dumbledore then “captured” said memory within a small vial that he had conjured. He seemed almost excited in regards to viewing the memory. It made Harry just a bit nervous if he thought about it. 

“Excellent. Now, I believe that some of your friends will wish to speak with you. Do you feel up to it?” Dumbledore inquired. Harry thought long and hard on his answer. He didn’t know how much his friends knew, and he was not ready to field any of their questions. In all honesty, had Dumbledore not already been in the room when he had woken up, he would’ve been content to stay locked away in his room.

“No,” Harry started. “I don’t think I’m ready to speak with them yet, or ever. I just need some more time, to  _ properly _ heal.” he didn’t know how to really put it into words, but he knew that Dumbledore would understand.

“I see. I will persuade them that you are to be left alone,” Dumbledore stated, turning to exit. He stopped with his hand on the door, and without turning around spoke a few more words. “It is never easy, Harry. If I could take your burden in all of this, I would do so just to see you smile. Stay safe my boy.”

After the headmaster left, Harry sat down heavily on his bed, his mind and body numb. He had a lot to think about.  

  
  



	8. Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Few swear words... some talks about magic. Simple really. I apologize for the delay. Happy Independence Day.

“Bloody _fucking_ hell!” Harry growled, slowly opening his eyes.

 

Harry had a headache. He was, in all likelihood, still exhausted - but he’d never admit that to himself. If he was being honest, he was absolutely certain that Madame Pomfrey would not like the idea of him _standing_ in front of his mirror. And yet he couldn’t sleep, despite the darkness permeating throughout his room. His thoughts bothered him. His sleep had been restless as he pondered the last words spoken by Albus Dumbledore.

 

 _‘Dumbledore, the man of second chances, would_ kill _on my behalf.’_ He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. It was, of course, some incredible dedication and caring. And yet, he didn’t want anyone to kill for him. He didn’t want anyone to kill at all, but that was the unfortunate reality of war - and his life.

 

He had, obviously, been exposed to death. At a tender 11 years old, he had killed. It was a different experience, because then he had just been a frightened boy out of his depth in the world of magic.

 

 _‘Hell, I’m still just a frightened boy, with a slightly deeper voice.’_ He thought to himself with little mirth. He had killed Quirrell but hadn’t truly understood what taking another life had meant. He hadn’t _meant_ to do it. He didn’t really count the Basilisk as a kill, but at 12 years old, he had no problem plunging the blood soaked fang into the diary to rid the world of a young Tom Riddle.

 

 _‘In my defense though, it was a memory that could still do_ magic _!’_ Harry thought to himself, looking for any excuse. In his third year, at a mere 13 years of age, he _would’ve_ killed Sirius if the truth hadn’t come out. He had likely redeemed himself by saving Peter’s life, even though now he truly regretted it. _‘Everything is like...a puzzle. There are so many pieces that may or may not fit. Or pieces that_ used _to fit, that no longer do. This isn’t helping my headache.’_

 

During his fourth year, he hadn’t killed anyone, but he had been the cause of Cedric being murdered in front of his eyes. In the Muggle world, they likely could’ve made a case of him being an accessory to murder. He should’ve simply taken the trophy and Cedric may still be alive today. It had never occurred to him that he was not the only one tricked into making an awful mistake during that Third Task. Everything had been orchestrated nearly perfectly in an attempt to revive the Dark Lord, preferably with the blood of the one that had escaped him.

 

Just recently, he had gotten his Godfather killed because he was too stupid to stay away from an obvious trap. Worse, he could’ve gotten all of his closest friends killed as well. It was weird to think of killing as casually as he was, but he believed that he was perhaps desensitized from the frequency of it. He was _used_ to death being around him at all times. At some point in his life, it had become to norm. Death, abuse, hatred of him for reasons he did not understand, the ridicule from “family” and “friends” - Harry realized that he was used to it all.

 

 _‘I’m a bloody menace to society.’_ Harry thought as he rubbed his temples in an attempt to alleviate some of the pounding in his head. He lay in the bed a bit longer, still not trusting himself to stand, and surprised that he had managed to do it yesterday. Madame Pomfrey had told him that he needed to be careful with his movements. A great deal of the damage that he took had been caused by “Dark Magic”, which only made the healing process more difficult as the curses had a way of burrowing deep and interfering with the healing spells.

 

 _‘Maybe the headache is from all of the information that she tossed at me.’_ Harry pondered. The MediWitch had tried to overload him with potions and guidelines for his recovery. She knew, it seemed, that he was not likely to listen to every single bit of information that she gave him. She made sure to make him repeat him his dosages to her until he could recite them verbatim. She had gone so far as to give him a wrap to go around his wrist that held 2 days worth of the 4 potions that he was on, albeit in a shrunken form. The brilliance was that he could be mobile and still recover. The nurse wanted to him mingle with his friends, but her heart hadn’t been in enforcing it. He simply wasn’t ready, mentally that is.

 

 _‘At least I’m not dead!’_ Harry thought with a grin. It had been explained to him that his “death” had been a way to reboot his body and his magic. Outside of the physical pain and the curses that still lingered within him, he was feeling _lighter_. Madame Pomfrey had eluded that he would possibly see some changes in his body now that there wasn’t such a drain on his magic. Nothing drastic, primarily due to the malnourishment he had endured at the Dursley’s.

 

Her solution was to give him some nutrient based potions, which were usually incredibly illegal and volatile when reacting to the magic of most people. She had explained to him that since his magic was new, for all intents and purposes, that she could introduce it to his bloodstream slowly. If only for the summer, but it would help him along the way to recovery. Because she said it, he trusted and believed her, but had no idea of how the process would actually work. He had decided to take a wait and see approach, and there was really no need to get excited over something that might not work.

 

It was time for him to try to stand up without anger infusing his muscles. He needed to help himself to recover. Madame Pomfrey had cautioned him not to overexert himself, but he was 15, and destined to kill or die trying, and he figured he could take some risks. After all, it would be ironic to die from injuries not sustained by the Dark Lord he was destined to fight.

 

“Harry, you probably shouldn’t be standing right now.” a familiar voice spoke behind, startling him thoroughly. He hadn’t even _heard_ her come in.

 

“How did you know that I was awake Hermione?” Harry asked, biting down the instinct to run from her presence.

 

“I haven’t slept well in the past few days. Besides, I was...am worried about you,” Hermione spoke. Harry, still with his back to her, wouldn’t notice her wipe a tear away. “Madame Pomfrey left a few more potions for you. She seemed to know that you’d attempt walking anyway. Now that I know you’re alive, I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

 

“Hermione,” Harry started, suddenly unsure of the words he wanted to say. “T-thank you.” He felt her smile from behind him.

 

“What are best friends for Harry? Do me a favor, don’t scare me like that ever again.” The young woman responded. A tired grin came to Harry’s face at her statement, causing him to turn around, only to catch the door closing behind his bestfriend.

 

It took him the better part of what was likely 15 minutes to cross the room, but he was finally able to look at the vials that Pomfrey had left for him; there were 3 total, and there was a note attached to one of the bottles.

 

_Mr. Potter, I did not tell you to stand. Yet, since I am aware of how stubborn you can be, I have had Severus prepare some potions for you that should aid your recovery. The silver potion is an Anti-Inflammatory potion, drink it all in one go and it should help with the general aches and pains, as well as take care of any residual effects of the curses. The red potion, of course, is a Pepper-Up Potion. The most important thing for you to do now is reacquaint yourself with your magic, and you’ll need energy to do that._

 

_The final potion is for your continued use. All you need is three drops per day. You must tell no one of this potion, and you must use it wisely._

 

_Madame Pomfrey_

 

Frowning at the cryptic message in the last bit of the note, Harry immediately downed the Pepper-Up Potion, followed by the Anti-Inflammatory remedy. Outside of a quick grimace from the awful taste, Harry had no visual reaction to the use of the potions. Out of habit, he found himself something to lean against as they immediately began to work their magic on him. He could vividly remember the very first time he took an Anti-Inflammatory potion and how it had knocked him on his arse. In his current state, he could do without a repeat of that.

 

A half hour later saw a showered and nearly dressed Harry Potter attempting to bend his sore and stiff knee to get into a pair of jeans. The potions had helped, yes, but they weren’t meant to be an immediate cure, as it was up to his magic and his body to heal the rest of his ailments. What he needed now was food, more than anything. Hopefully, no one else was awake. From a quick peek at the blinds covering his magical window, he could see that it was still dark outside, maybe just the wee hours of the morning.

 

Once in the kitchen, a journey that became easier with every step that he took, he reveled in the silence of the kitchen. He made himself a sandwich, a simple one really, and took a satisfying bite as he leaned against the countertop. He immediately resisted the urge to vomit, his body dissatisfied with the meal after so much time on medicine, and simple fluids. He forced himself to finish. He had to continue living. He could not take a break just because his body wasn’t ready. Mentally, he still had much to consider, to ponder and to decide upon.

 

First on his list of things was simply getting trained, or training himself. While he may be good by the standards of a Hogwarts student, he knew that the enemies after him were leagues better. Sirius, said by some to be ferocious dueler, had been defeated by Bellatrix after all. Dumbledore, too, had merely fought Voldemort to a draw. Though, there was the prophecy to consider there. Instead of school work, this was the life he had to live.

 

Then, came the question of if he failed. He was under no qualms about the gap between himself and Voldemort. The man was _powerful_ , and was only getting stronger every single day. On top of that, he had decades of experience in powerful forms of magic, and Harry felt woefully inadequate. He wasn’t afraid to die, not particularly anyway. But he was afraid for his friends and the people he considered his family _should_ he fall in battle. He knew they wouldn’t survive long, no matter how hard they fought. If he was the key to the entire war against Voldemort, he could not afford to die. And yet, how could he live in the face of the monstrous power that was Voldemort?

 

What happened if he won? That was a question that he rarely pondered. For the longest time, it had seemed as if Voldemort simply held a grudge. Now, after that meeting with the headmaster, Harry knew that it ran much deeper than that. Voldemort would do anything to destroy the Boy-Who-Lived and all of those he held dear. If he won, and it was an enormous if, what would his life be like then? He was already scorned and loved for simply not dying when so many others had. If he killed Voldemort, what would change? He had no illusions of grandeur. He simply wanted peace and quiet. He had a feeling, though, that that would never be the case for him. As a kid, living with his aunt and uncle, he had never had visions of his future, only his immediate present. He had simply wished for love and affection, to speak with his parents, and to mean _something_ to someone. An escape to the wizarding world was just what the doctor had ordered, originally. And now, his life was even worse here.

 

 _“What did I do to deserve this life?”_ He pondered, absorbed in the dust particles that seemed to float in the air. Fate seemed to play a cruel game with him. He could run away. He _should_ run away. And yet, he couldn’t just leave his friends.

 

 _“Ron… the Weasley’s, Remus, Hagrid, Hermione…”_ Harry thought. Fate has presented him a life and then gave him many reasons to not run away. If he thought about it, he’d certainly realize that his life was _better_ in the magical world, mostly because he wasn’t always alone. True, Ron and Hermione would never know some of the things that he had to go through, but they suffered through some of the same challenges as he did. For that alone, he could not simply leave them to a disastrous fate. Which meant that he needed to be better, to be stronger, so that he could protect the friends that gave him a reason to want to live.

 

He had never taken a truly active step in his Hogwarts education, but even he knew that the spells and techniques needed to defeat Voldemort would not be taught in the halls of Hogwarts. This was especially the case if there was another teacher like Umbridge. He needed more. He wanted to live, but he _needed_ to live even more.

 

 _‘I wonder if the Black Library has anything that could help me?’_ Harry thought as he looked at his surroundings. If the house was any indication, he was certain that they had some nice spells for him to learn and to put to use. With that simple realization, he made his way to the library, gaining strength with every step that he took, his mission invigorating.

 

A couple of hours later would find him shifting through a pile of books that held truly interesting spells. The problem was, many of the theories and ideas was above his current knowledge. He wondered, briefly, if it was because he had truly neglected his studies at Hogwarts, or if it was because they were advanced topics. One such passage read as:

 

 _For many witches and wizards, magic is an innate defensive mechanism. That is, for the vast majority of the magic folk, their magic will act as a deterrent against most forms of bodily harm. For example, a magic user can fall from heights, and suffered little more than a sharp bite of pain. Inherently, there magic reached out to their surroundings and provided a sort of protection. That is not to say that a magic user can jump off a broom several hundred feet in the air and survive that fall. Indeed, it is almost to say that a magic user can usually walk away from most_ simple _accidents._

 

 _As magic users age and mature, they can learn to hone this instinct and use it in battle as a means of protecting themselves further. However, the concept of gathering one’s magic is a rare, and often considered lost, art. Many witches and wizards do not bother with the idea of gathering their magic, and using it in battle. The simple fact is, many magic users live a_ peaceful _life and rarely have to defend themselves against an attack._

 

The book had gone one to discuss the pros and cons of gathering magic, and how it could be helpful in everyday life as well, and not just in a battle. And yet, just the phrase itself was baffling to Harry.

 

 _‘What the bloody hell does it mean to gather your magic? How is someone supposed to_ feel _their magic!?’_ Harry thought furiously, throwing the book against the wall, not caring about the sound that it created. The house was still asleep. He must’ve woken up in the wee hours of the morning for there to be no one coming and going. Almost as a direct result of the sound he created, he heard hurried footsteps from down the hall. Bracing himself for a tongue lashing from Mrs Weasley, he was surprised to find that none other than Remus Lupin peaked into the room.

 

“What are you doing- oh, Harry. I didn’t expect you to be awake, least of all walking around.” Remus stated, snuffing the light from his wand.

 

“Yeah, I was a bit restless.” Harry replied, keeping his eyes on the lamp that was lit on the table beside him. He was still wrapped up in his thoughts, and didn’t hear the response from his ex-Professor. He did, however, hear the follow-up question.           

 

“What’s wrong Harry?” Remus asked.

 

It was a loaded question. Harry knew that he could simply blame the aftermath of the battle, but these had been thoughts that seemed to permeate throughout his very being. Remus, while an adult, was a trusted adult and always seemed to see him as an equal and not a child. On the other hand, he was still loyal to Dumbledore, and as a result, Harry did not know how his answer would affect the man.

 

“Remus,” Harry started, instantly capturing the man’s attention. Harry _never_ called by his proper name. “Can I trust you?” Harry asked, looking into the werewolf’s eyes and seeing the bewilderment.

 

“Of course Harry! I would do anything for you.” Remus replied, earnestly. Harry took a few moments to ponder this response and to gather his thoughts before completely unleashing and baring his frustrations.

 

“I’ve always felt as if I were a step behind everyone. And, with everyone looking at me to be this great sorcerer, I don’t feel like I measure up. I feel like I missed an orientation for “Wizarding 101”. There are so many things that I just don’t seem to know how to do, or understand, and yet it appears to be basic information for the next student.” Harry vented. It had been a question on his mind for quite some time.

 

For example, when it came to potions, he couldn’t seem to grasp the basic concept of why certain potions had certain ingredients or why it was so important to slice, chop, or grind that ingredient just so. There seemed to be some big secret that he had never been let in on. He watched as Remus nodded his head in understanding, but was still slightly afraid that the man would laugh at him.

 

“Most wizards, at least the way it was for my upbringing before I was bit, were tutored at home in the basics of magic. They received low-level lectures on the differences between charms and curses, and what could be blocked by what, what to do in certain situations with certain spells. Some families, especially Purebloods, hired tutors for their children. My father was really good at charms and defensive spells and the manipulation of those spells. His example was always the stunning spell. Sometimes it was better to knock someone out. Other times, he would say, it was better to knock them out of the fight, but not unconscious.” Remus replied, looking pensive. These memories of his childhood seemed to be harsh on him.

 

“What? How does that make sense?” Harry asked bewildered.

 

“Well, first, you’d have to understand that some spells can be countered without a wand. I hear that you can throw off the Imperius curse, do you do that with a wand?” Remus asked. He watched as Harry shook his head to confirm. “Exactly. Most spells that are used to affect the body can be countered mentally. Take _Immobulus_. It’s used to slow you down, yes. However, if you are of strong mind, and you really want to get free, the spell wouldn’t truly stop you for long. Likewise, if a much weaker witch or wizard casts the spell it may not even truly affect you. Your magic and your mind will protect you to a certain extent all on its own. It’s up to you, then, foster that connection with your magic.”

 

“Wow. Why don’t they teach this in school?” Harry asked. How useful would this have been in all of their fights and adventures?

 

“Well, it’s advanced magic. Independent research can be used to find out more about it, but Hogwarts doesn’t truly have a class set aside for the mind arts. They do a general education, and leave the rest for the student to pursue at their own whims.” Remus replied, as if it made all the sense in the world. Harry on the other hand was thinking of himself and other people in his position such as the Muggleborns, who likely hadn’t had such an introduction to the magical world. Well, not that he knew off. Hermione seemed to know a bit of everything, and he had never seen any of the other Muggleborns that he knew struggle with the basic concepts.

 

“Well, can you teach me?” Harry asked. He hadn’t even thought of the question, but it was almost second nature to want to know the answer to the question. The worst that Remus could say to him was no. At most, Harry figured he could learn a bit more about magic from an expert, and then try to apply it to his individual study.

 

“Of course Harry. I seem to have a bit of time on my hands now that… well, nevermind that. Of course I can teach you. Where do you want to start? What do you want to learn? I’m no expert by any means, but I was the nerd of the Marauders, so I have a pretty good understanding of most things. Actually, I’m still a nerd, but we’ll just keep that between the two of us.” Remus replied, with a smile that Harry shared, albeit halfheartedly.

 

“I want to learn anything that can help me in a fight.” Harry responded in a serious manner, Remus raised his eyebrows at the request.

 

“That’s a broad topic Harry.” Remus replied.

 

“Well,” Harry started, embarrassed that he had been speaking without truly thinking of what he needed and what we wanted. “Let’s start at the beginning, with things that I am _supposed_ to know, and we can branch off from there. I’m willing to learn whatever it is you wish to teach me.” Harry replied earnestly. Remus seemed to think of this as an acceptable response and instantly became more comfortable, taking a seat in one of the chairs near Harry.

 

“One of the things that we’re going to work on first, before we truly cast magic at one another is helping you understand the basics. You have a grasp on magic like none other, without truly understanding all of the basics and why things works. You remind me of James and Sirius in that; they were always foregoing the manual for a bit of hands-on experience.”

 

“Ok, where do we start then?” Harry asked. Curious to see how he could use this to his advantage. If Remus was right, and Harry was sure that he was, this could save a lot of time in his understanding of duels. You didn’t have to be exceedingly powerful to win a duel. Quick thinking, and careful understanding of how spells worked, and how they’re countered could be monumental in saving his life.

 

“And, how do you become familiar with your magic? Is it just a simple case of using it a lot, or is there something more? And how the hell does one _gather_ their magic?” Harry asked the questions rapid-fire. Some if it _seemed_ simple enough, but that meant nothing in the world of magic.

 

“It’s definitely important how often you use it, and then more so in _how_ you use it. You can use a spell every day and still not develop a relationship, for lack of better words, for your magic. I’m no expert in the matter, but I’ve noticed that the more I use a spell, I seem to have an affinity for it. Your Patronus Charm, for example, is probably the most powerful that I have ever seen, including Dumbledore’s. You’ve had to use it so much and in so many desperate situations, and practice it so hard, that when you cast it, Dementors literally can’t stand to face it. I wouldn’t be shocked if one day they began to fear you.” Remus responded, motioning Harry to follow him. His scrunched face was a proof that he had placed a lot of thought into his answer. Harry had never thought of magic that way, though it did makes sense that the more you used something, the better at using it you would become.

 

As they entered one of the barely used rooms in the home, Harry watched quietly as Remus began to conjure cushions and place them strategically around the floor. Harry gave him a look of appreciation.

 

“I guess this is for when I hit the floor?” Harry asked. “You’re so considerate.” He continued, sarcastically.

 

“I could _not_ provide safe learning for you. It would be a very Madaurer-ish thing for me to do, don’t you think.” Remus responded with a rare smile. Harry could only concede to his point, after all it _did_ make sense.

 

“What are we starting with?” Harry asked.

 

“Probably just a bit of lecture before I can actually start casting magic at you. If you forget anything, remember that the spells that have to stop a function of your body are typically directed at your brain. Therefore, you can overwhelm those spells just by being in control of your brain. Occlumency helps a lot here if you hadn’t noticed. It helps when you have a firm understanding of your mind.”

 

“Got it.” Harry spoke, eager to begin.

 

“How do you hold your wand?” Remus asked, beckoning Harry to pull out his wand. “Most people hold their wand too rigidly and so they shake with their spell casting. Others don’t hold their wand tight enough and so it is easily torn from their grasp. Put your thumb there, your index finger there, and allow the rest of your fingers to naturally fall into position. This is going to feel weird, but it’s the best way to cast spells. Now put your wand away.” Harry obliged the man and listened on as Remus began to explain why it was important to hold your wand in such a manner. Not only was your body more naturally relaxed, but one would have far more control over their wand and the spells that were cast. Remus further went on to even show Harry the stark differences between holding the wand too tightly and holding it too loosely. By sending out multiple spells at the targets he had created, Remus was able to show Harry the difference in his aiming.

 

“If you’re in danger, drawing your wand and sending a spell should all be in one motion. You’d need to be fast on the draw and fast on the spell as well. What’s the best defense for a spell?” Remus asked.

 

“To move.” Harry replied quickly. The answer was obvious. Just a few short days ago, his instincts and ability to move had saved his life several times.

 

“Good. Now, all spells can’t be blocked or countered with the same defensive spells, so we are certainly going to cover a wide range of spells that will allow you to adjust accordingly. Protego is usually good for simpler spells, but it uses magical energy. What you will notice more proficient wizards and witches do is a technique called parrying. What it does is that it focuses just a bit of magical energy at the tip of the wand and then use that energy coupled with the magic of the spell to send it elsewhere.” Remus stated. Harry stared at him, silently, hoping that the string of sentences would begin to make sense to him eventually.

 

“Wait, what?” Harry asked, thoroughly confused at this point.

 

“Hit me.” Remus stated. Harry hesitated but drew his wand and readied himself with a spell.

 

“ _Stupefy!”_ Harry said. It was a fairly basic spell, and easy for Remus to block or for Harry to counter. What Harry did not expect was for Remus to simply stand there as the spell sped towards him. Further, he did not expect the werewolf to seemingly slap the spell harmlessly into the wall to his left.

 

“What I did was time it perfectly, get the magic _just_ right, and then deflect the spell elsewhere. It’s not a simple matter and not easy to master, and some avoid it completely. However, it is very helpful when you’re in a duel, aren’t sure of the spell being cast at you and you don’t know the shield necessary. Obviously, you cannot do this with an Unforgivable. Those, you want to avoid at all cost.” Remus replied.

 

“Why isn’t this taught?” Harry asked, thinking over the requirements of the defensive technique.

 

“Well, everyone can’t keep their focus. Duels would be over so much faster if everyone thought themselves capable of parrying. It the timing and the amount of magic at the tip of the wand have to be _perfect_. Not almost, not sort of, but perfect. It takes a lot of humiliating moments before some people can learn to do this. This is something that we will work on constantly. It is extremely advanced, like professional dueling level, but with your instincts, I am sure that you can pick it up quickly.” Remus said, adding the last part after seeing the disappointed look on Harry’s face.

 

“Wait, how did I just do magic and not receive an owl from the Ministry?” Harry asked aloud. Remus could only shrug, as apparently, he did not know the answer either.

 

“Let’s just take advantage of the good fortune and get started,” The older man responded. He turned the attention to the targets that were at the far end of the wall. “What I want you to do, every single day, for at least 15 minutes, is practice at hitting the targets. Once we are certain you can hit the targets consistently while, stationary, we will toss in a few more tricks to get you up to speed.”

 

“I can do that.” Harry replied.

 

“Today, we are going to start with some of the spells that you know, I want to see your repertoire so that I can see how you are casting them and your accuracy with them. I don’t want to see just your offensive spells, but every single spell that you know. I want you to cast each spell only once, but try your very best. What I will do from my side is some recording so that we can figure some things out.” Remus stated, moving out of the way to give Harry room.

 

Harry nodded his understanding, and took the spot that Remus indicated, eager to get started. He started with one of the first spells that he learned, the Levitation charm, easily lifting all of the non-living materials in the room. For the next 20 minutes or so, he found himself in a rhythm as he cast all of the spells that he knew. He had decided to go in order by subject, starting with Charms, then proceeding to Transfiguration, and ending with Defense Against the Dark Arts.

 

In his zone, he didn’t notice the magical device that Remus has conjured to record the information. Blissfully unaware, he placed himself in a zone where the only thing he saw was his target, depending on the spell.

 

**********

Nymphadora Tonks, youngest Auror in Great Britain’s Ministry of Magic, entered Number 12 Grimmauld Place after an exhausting shift. She hated the night shift, truly. Some of the most horrid and awful things happened in the night, and with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named return from the dead, it seemed as if those incidents had quadrupled in occurrence. There were nearly nightly raids, and villages ransacked all over the isle. In most cases, they didn’t hear about some of these attacks until after the fact, when there was nothing to recover but bodies from destroyed homes. The Deatheaters were quick and brutally efficient. They seemed to know that there was a standard of at least a 15 minute response time from the Aurors and other Ministry personnel. The closest that a team of Aurors came to actually _witnessing_ one of the raids was when they apparated on the seen just as the Dark Mark was shot into the sky.

 

What was worse was that the Deatheaters were very good at covering their tracks, and their approach. There were simply too many people to protect and not enough people to do the actual protecting. There hadn’t been any Auror losses, yet, but it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed. Tonks, personally, feared an ambush.

 

 _‘Merlin knows some of us are poorly trained as it is.’_ Tonks thought morbidly, cringing at some of the latest recruits from the Auror Academy. Despite being the youngest Auror on the force, Tonks was usually handpicked for many missions. Her ability as a metamorphmagus was unrivaled when it came to infiltrating enemy camps and doing detective work. And yet, there was not much she could do if the Ministry couldn’t even detect the Deatheaters as they attacked.

 

After a shift like that, with some of the bodies that she had seen, she wanted nothing more than a few shots of Firewhiskey and some sleep, likely in that very order. It was to her surprise then when she entered Grimmauld Place to find a heavy presence of magic in the air, as if the very air she breathed was saturated with it. It had an actual _weight_ to it. Most witches and wizards could sense magic to an extent, but there was few that were sensitive to it. As she _had_ to be because she was a metamorphmagus, she was more adept at sensing powerful magics being used around her. Following her senses, she entered further into the home and up the stairs.

 

She found Remus Lupin with his eyes locked on a device that she recognized from her Auror training school. It had some weird, funky, name but she knew that The Machine (as the Auror types called it) was used to measure their magical ability. That is, their teachers, and commanding officers, were able to test the Auror Cadets as they progressed through the program. Anyone that was not up to par, would likely have to repeat courses. Anyone that saw a significant drop in their scores could be quietly reevaluated and shifted out of the program.

 

The scoring was simple, and yet complex. The spell that she noticed Remus using was not exactly measuring Harry in his entirety, but rather his connection to his magic. From the seminars that she was forced to attend, Tonks knew that wizards of a certain power level and magical potency were accepted as Aurors. Any of those that did not make the actual cut to be an Auror were usually regulated to the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, or Walkers if one used their lingo. A step below the Aurors, they did the more basic of the crime-fighting. From the Auror division, a witch or wizard could go under extensive training to become a Hit Wizard. Hit Wizards were known to be the most dangerous of the group, mostly because they had a “curse once, curses again and then ask questions approach”. They usually weren’t sent out unless there was concrete evidence that a Dark Wizard was holed up somewhere and believed to be dangerous. They specialized in destroying the scene and letting others clean up after them.

 

“Nymphadora, came to watch?” Remus spoke to her with his back still turned to her. She would never get over his keen sense of smell. No matter which form she was in, the man could find her no matter what. As an Auror, it irked her that the man could essentially render her useless on a mission. It probably didn’t help that she tried to spend as much time around him as possible, so that he had no other choice but to remember her scent.

 

“Wolfie, I told you not to call me that.” Tonks responded in a way that was nearly second nature.

 

“As long as you think you can call me that, I will call you by your proper name. I like it.” The man responded. Tonks chose to ignore the comment with a slight grin.

 

“How is he doing?” She asked instead. She and Remus had discussed, over a bottle of Firewhiskey, the possibility of helping with Harry with his magic. Before becoming a member of the Order, she had heard wild rumors and accusations about some of his exploits. Of course, she had attributed these to an incredible streak of luck on his behalf. True, being the Boy-Who-Lived made it seem as fighting Basilisk and winning deadly tournaments was something that he simply _did_. He was Harry Potter and therefore it was expected of him. Joining the Order had only added more to those rumors, as she had been able to find credible sources for all of the rumors.

 

And just recently, she had managed to see the aftermath of a true battle with him. From the evidence gathered, there had to have been four wizards total, adults from the scans done at the scene. From the battle itself and the sheer amount of damage done, Harry seemed to have been able to hold his own for a bit. She had seen tapes of some of his Quidditch matches and had been awed by his flying ability, instincts and sheer skill on the pitch. She knew, immediately how some of those things could have been converted to a duel. What Harry really needed then was proper training.

 

It was strange in a way how no one had thought to train the one person that trouble always seemed to find. At least then, the kid would know how to respond to some of the situations. As an Auror she knew the vast difference between the skill sets of the various members of society, which is why there were upper and lower levels in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She and Remus, who was convinced that Harry was likely to be powerful, had wanted to expand his repertoire and simply teach him some tricks they had picked up. Some of the members of the Order weren’t likely to approve, but the best way to protect Harry was to help him learn to protect himself.

 

“Honestly?,” Remus responded after a long hesitation. “He sucks when his life isn’t on the line.”

 

“Well, let’s see what we can do about that.” Tonks responded, watching as Harry continued to cast spells at the targets.  

 


	9. Letter and Emotions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could use a number of excuses for the delayed postings, but I will simply apologize. There.

_ #12 Grimmauld Place _

 

Her pillow was soaked. Try as she might, she could not completely stop the flow of her tears. Whenever there was a reprieve, it was only because her body simply didn’t have any more tears to produce. At that point, she’d dry-heave. It hurt her body, and it hurt her soul. She had yet to decipher why it affected her in this manner, but what she did know was that she never wanted to feel like this again.

 

She could feel a dull ache in her heart, and despite her intellect, had neither the means nor the strength to rid herself of it. She had cried before, that much was obvious. She had been in pain before, had harsh wounds before. And yet each of those feelings paled in comparison to how she felt now.

 

As intelligent and brilliant as she was, she was lost in a sea of her own emotions. Inexplicably, she had no answers for once.

 

She hadn’t cried this much since her grandmother had passed away while holding her. At the time, she had felt guilt, as if she had  _ literally _ sucked the life out of the venerable woman. It was weird in a sense, being held by a loved one, so filled with life only to feel the heaviness of their emptiness moments later. She hadn’t cried immediately, she had still been too young. And while, mentally, she had already been intellectually sparring with her teachers, she hadn’t known the truth of what had happened. She hadn’t known that she would never see her grandmother again. She had, of course,  _ read _ about death, and had even seen some of her classmates and neighbors affected by it. Yet, it had never affected her. She had never known 3 out of her 4 grandparents, having passed before she was even conceived, but she had known this one. This grandmother had bought her a present that had changed her life; a book.

 

Her grandmother had told her that they were, or had been, very similar in their youth. Too smart for their own good. The size of the intellect was simply too much for many others. It wasn’t her fault of course, everyone was born different. That had been her escape, to read. In the two weeks after the funeral of her grandmother, she had read that very first book more than a dozen times. It was a simple book really, but just reading the passages had always brought her sense of calmness.

 

It wasn’t much of a thought connected to it, but all of a sudden she walked over to her trunk, and shifted around until she had unveiled the compartment she had tacked on. The trunk, while ordinary held one of her safe-havens. Some of her books had been shrunken in order to allow room for more. With every book memorized, she sought out more knowledge. It was the one thing that she had control over in her life. It was the one thing that never left her.

 

With a candle and a book, she could conquer the world. Or at least hide from it. She could hide from her nightmares, and from the pathetic tears that she shed.

 

Picking up her tattered but loved copy of  _ A Wrinkle in Time _ , she brushed a lock of bushy brown hair out of her eyes and thought that maybe nightmares of a raven-haired wizard would cease.

  
  


**********

_ Ministry of Magic _

 

In another part of the world, a man scribbled a missive that he sent off hurriedly. He had many things that he  _ needed _ to attend to, and yet many more things that he  _ wanted  _ to take care of. To him, some of those things easily merged and made it difficult for him to make his decisions. Well, to the eyes of his enemies anyway. To his allies, there should be no other decision  _ for _ him to make.

 

He was the leader, or the lead politician in any case, and he made the decisions. Of course, he had to make sure that all of the right people were happy and for all of the right reasons. And yet, in some cases, he knew he needed to take control. It was likely that some people simply wanted his power and his influence. Too many of his enemies wanted him dead and too many of his allies wanted to use him. That was the game that he played though, and for a while it had been great. It had been peaceful if anything.

 

And now, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned. He couldn’t deny it anymore, and he couldn’t run from it. He had seen the being with his own eyes, in front of the smug faces of Dumbledore and the Potter boy. He could picture them all laughing at him now, hoping and praying for his downfall. Even if he went down now, he certainly had a nest-egg squirrelled away. He could get by for the next several lifetimes if all went to plan.

 

He should be scared, he knew. And yet, he knew and understood what it took to motivate the public. He knew what it meant to pretend to give the people what they wanted and how to go about surviving the battle ahead.

 

It seemed as if some of the worst things happened during his tenure as Minister. Black had escaped. Several others had escaped as well, more than likely assisted by Black. Dumbledore had been conspiring against him. Potter had been a menace at Hogwarts as usual, and finally You-Know-Who had shown his face. So many things had happened to him. And yet he had persevered. He was  _ meant _ to be the Minister of Magic. He simply had to take care of a few issues, that was all.

 

Apparently the Prophet hadn’t done a well enough job throughout the last year. Of course, the fiasco at the Ministry didn’t help one bit. Yet, he was a Fudge, a member of a family that did not give up. He had attained more than any of his prior ancestors had previously. He had become  _ great _ ! He had become MInister of Magic.

 

It would be a simple matter of crafting a manner in which to get his point across. A simple letter, written to the right person, to get the necessary issues across would suffice. He would send it immediately to make sure that his hastily laid plan could work. Nothing could go wrong for Cornelius Fudge, it would simply be a longer day in the office.

 

**********

_ #12 Grimmauld Place _

 

He tossed and turned, unable to break away from the horror of his memories.

 

It was dark, cloudy maybe, but the darkness was so great that he could not tell the difference. It scared him if he wanted to be honest about it. In the darkness, he could feel the presence of malice. A presence built upon nothing but hate, pain, and sorrow. It hurt him to be  _ aware _ of it.

 

Suddenly, there were two pinpricks of red in the distance. They were nearly indistinguishable from the darkness around him. And yet, once he noticed them, he couldn’t help but notice the pinpricks. In fact, if he focused on them, he could not help but notice that they were getting larger. It took but a moment for his mind to realize that the small red dots were getting  _ larger _ because they were coming  _ closer _ to him. It he could have moved, he would have, but he found himself entrenched in his position. Whether it was by fear or simple indecision, he found himself paralyzed.

 

And then they were there. He could see them in great detail It was almost as if he was looking in the mirror. He could  _ feel _ himself within those eyes, causing some of those hateful emotions that he sensed.

 

“Harry Potter.” A voice, snake-like in its being spoke to him. The sound reverberated through his mind. He could move again and he ran as fast as he possibly could.

 

Harry Potter woke up chasing his breath, hyperventilating in his attempts to run from the nightmares that plagued him nightly. It had only been a few short days since he had woken up, and each night had been the same. Fortunately, his nightmares allowed him to keep to himself in that he could eat and gather his thoughts while everyone else was asleep. His odd hours kept him from the eyes of his friends. As badly as he wanted to speak to them, a part of him knew that he was not ready for the questions that he would face. Nor was he ready for the looks of pity that he was sure to receive. 

 

Instead he busied himself with the notes that he had taken from studying with Remus and Tonks. True to their word, they had started at the very beginning of magic and had attempted to redefine  _ everything _ that he thought he had known.

 

In his time when he was not reviewing notes, he locked himself in the room that Remus had taken him to initially throwing himself into the practical application of his magic. It was a simple matter really. He had made it his duty to master every single spell that he had learned previously. He wanted to know every spell intimately, and learn the ins and outs of every spell as well. He, quite honestly, didn’t know if he was making progress, but once he spent himself he felt better. At the very least, he was doing  _ something _ .

 

If he were being honest with himself, he wasn’t satisfied with simply knowing that there was a war going on. He needed to feel as if he was making an impact. He needed to feel as if he was changing the tide, or at least listening to the people that were trying to  _ stem _ the tide. Voldemort had an entire year to gain a foothold, and Harry refused to believe that he had simply fixated on the prophecy at the end of his last year. Voldemort was simply smarter than that. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by simply having one goal. He was ruthless _ and _ intelligent. A scary combination if you factor in his level of power and obsession with the idea of killing everyone.

 

Harry whisked through several hours attempting to sort through his nightmarish thoughts until it was time to meet with Remus. Their discussions on magic had  _ enlightened _ him, so to speak. Slowly, he could understand where Hermione was coming from with her excitement to learn as much as possible. Except, in his case, he  _ needed _ to know as possible. It was without a doubt that Voldemort knew these things like the back of his hand, even with all of the mutations.

 

“Harry, are you listening?” Remus asked, for what was likely the third time. Harry, seemingly, had spaced out again. Harry couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what the discussion was about.

 

“I’m sorry Moony. I’m just… well, I guess I’m just unfocused. It won’t happen again.” Harry replied. He couldn’t allow a simple straying of his thoughts to take him away from his mission, his  _ destiny _ .

 

“It’s okay Harry. Are you well enough to continue? We can cancel our meeting for today if that’s what you want?” Remus asked, concern filling his eyes. Harry shook his head quickly.

 

“No, I need to know these things. Where were we?” Harry continued, noting that Remus looked as if he needed and wanted to ask a question. With a deep sigh, the werewolf continued on as before.

 

“What do we know about magic so far?” Remus asked. Harry took a moment to take a sip from his bottle of Butterbeer before responding. The conversations with Remus, being informal, helped him to define magic for  _ himself _ , which was far better than the definitions that the school tended to force down the throats of their students.

 

“We know, or rather the general consensus is, that magic is fluid. Apparently, it can’t be confined to one place, it can’t be trapped, and in many ways it is completely uncontrollable.” Harry responded. Remus nodded at the short summary.

 

“Good. Which is why incantations and wand movements are used to  _ guide _ the magic. Now, how do you use your magic?” Remus asked. For once, Harry was a bit stuck on this one.

 

“I dunno, I just do I guess. I don’t know that it was ever a conscious thought. Once I had the wand in my hand, it all seemed to click.” Harry thought with a shrug.

 

“Well let’s look at it this way Harry. Have you seen Dumbledore use magic?” Remus asked.

 

“Yeah, all the time, but mostly at the Ministry where he dueled Voldemort.” Harry replied, an unconscious shiver rushing through his body as he remembered the sheer power of the battle.

 

“Ah yes, I heard about that battle. Did you notice anything in particular that has to do with our lecture for today?” Remus asked, trying to rephrase the question.

 

“Well, for the most part they talked as they exchanged spells that could level entire buildings it seemed. And they always knew where the other was. Voldemort was fairly aggressive, but I think Dumbledore was actually pushing him back. When they talked – Bloody Hell, they didn’t use any actual spells.” Harry said excitedly.

 

“Excellent. For the most part, most accomplished adults do away with words and in most cases can do away with wand movements as well. What does this tell you?” Remus asked.

 

“Bloody hell if I know.” Harry said with a chuckle.

 

“I’ll give you this one. Magic is all about intent and willpower. Most witches and wizards use these incantations as a way of shaping their intent, and then use their willpower to guide the magic. Does that make sense to you?” Remus asked.

 

Harry took a moment before confidently shaking his head with a small grin. “No, not really.”

“Well, let’s look at it this way. When you are using the spell  _ Expelliarmus _ what’s your process? And I don’t mean now, it’s probably second nature by now. I mean when you first learned it, how was it taught to you?” Remus asked.

 

Harry thought for a second, trying to remember back to his second year when he had first learned the spell. Technically, he had learned the spell watching Snape and Lockhart duel and read up on it a bit later. From the  _ book _ he could remember that the wand moment was a quick thrust in the direction of the enemy, the incantation, and then picturing the result of the spell. He said as much to Remus.

 

“The key point there, Harry, is  _ picturing _ what the spell is supposed to do. That allows you to use your willpower to fuel your intent. Would the spell work if you said aloud  _ Expelliarmus _ but pictured them floating?” Remus asked. Harry shook his head visibly.

 

“I suppose not. Is it hard to do?” Harry asked.

 

“Well, it isn’t easy, but with all things all you have to do is practice. The parrying trick that we talked about is simply a silent shield spell that is used at the precise moment. All it takes, is a bit of intent and a lot of willpower. Can you see how helpful this will be in a duel?” Remus responded.

 

“Yeah, makes it tough for the enemy to defend if they don’t know the spell that you are calling out.” Harry thought aloud. “But, that would mean that as a defender, I would need to have a good grasp on the spells myself, right?”

 

“Yes and no. I can see where you are coming from here, but keep in mind that the best defense is moving. If you don’t recognize the spell, don’t hesitate to move out of the way. Some spells look remarkably similar, but once you get a feeling for your own magic and the way that the spell works, you’ll be more adept at identifying magic in general.”

 

“Wait, why is that? How can your magic get used to an enemy's spell?” Harry asked, confused.

 

“Well, would you say you have a good grasp on the Patronus Charm?” Remus asked. At Harry’s nod, he continued further, “I’d reckon then that you could feel another Patronus being cast nearby. The trick is  _ feeling _ your magic.”

 

“So, we’re back to square one then?” Harry asked. At Remus’ nod, Harry groaned. “How does one feel their magic?” He continued.

 

“Well, the theory is for a normal magic user, about 10 years. But I know that you don’t necessarily have the luxury of waiting. Some say that Occlumency helps, but I’m rubbish there. Plus, being  werewolf gives me my own mental shields of sorts. Do you know Occlumency?” Remus asked, seemingly unaware of the disaster that Snape had been a part of last year.

 

“Yep. Dumbledore made me take it with Snape.” Harry responded, the sneer in his voice. Remus could not help his incredulous expression.

 

“He had someone that you  _ hate _ repeatedly go into your mind? Let me guess, he made every effort to tear you down and fish for every negative memory?” Lupin asked, starting to get upset himself.

 

“Pretty much. And, it’s not that I hate him exactly, I just wish he had never been born.” Harry said with a smirk. “He kicked me out after I snooped in his Pensieve. Speaking of that, I didn’t know my father was a bully.” Harry spoke, hoping that he had caught Remus off guard with the question.

 

“We were all young then. I wouldn’t say that James was a bully. No, if anything he was very fair. We did a lot of pranking in Hogwarts days, but we weren’t the only ones. Some people were okay with the good natured pranks, and others wanted to get us back.” Remus took a break, his eyes holding a faraway look. “The problem was, truly, that this particular event was around the time that Voldemort’s reach was lengthening. Students were being yanked out of school, and had their family members murdered. Some took the pranks a bit seriously. Snape was one of those, despite never being shy about doing his own bit of pranking.”

 

“So, this was what, a random event?” Harry asked, still trying to put the pieces together.

 

“I see.” Harry replied simply. There was nothing more that needed to be said. It was decades ago, and Snape  _ still _ hated him for it. It was no matter as Harry knew he had bigger fish to fry.

 

“Let’s get back to talking about magic, ok?” Remus stated with a sigh. It was years ago, but that didn’t lessen the depth of their idiocy. 

 

**********

  
  


_ Hogwarts, Headmaster’s Office _

 

Dumbledore sat back with a sigh. He had watched the memory of Harry fighting for his life several times. With each repetition, the tear in his heart grew greater and greater, and the pain  _ hurt _ . Not exactly a physical pain, no, but a pain that he felt deep within his being. 

 

For all of his titles, and all of his skills, and all of his power, he had still been unable to protect the boy. A part of him did realize that he had indeed  _ saved _ Harry in a way, but his logical mind would not allow for him to settle for that. He was upset that it had even had a chance to happen in the first place. 

 

What was worse, he was _ scared _ of how the event would add further stress to the already burdened young man. Harry had so much on his plate, and every day seemed to only serve to add more hardship and pain into his life.

 

“Albus,” Mad-Eye Moody spoke nearly startling the Headmaster, and his long time friend. Truly, Albus had forgotten he was there. “You called me here, urgently? What’s the matter?” His gruff voice continued.

 

“I wanted you to watch a memory with me. I believe you have been briefed on the situation that occurred with Mr. Potter?” Dumbledore asked, looking over his half-moon glasses. 

 

“Situation? Bloody catastrophe in my eyes. The Deatheaters are getting bold Albus, very bold. They aren’t hiding anymore.” Moody replied, his magical eye twirling observing all of the portraits in the office. One would think he suspected them of an attack. 

 

“Indeed. I was able to ask Harry to provide me with a copy of the memory. I wish to see what we can decipher from this. I think, perhaps, that the answer may lie in what  _ didn’t _ happen, as opposed to what did. Will you join me?” Dumbledore asked, already knowing the answer. A stiff nod was all that he received. 

 

Almost at once his Pensieve flew over from the cabinet without a spoken word or gesture from its owner, a casual display of his complete mastery of the summoning charm.

 

“Damn show off.” Moody muttered with a maniacal grin. He too knew a bit of wandless magic, but Dumbledore was seemingly in a class of his own. Albus simply smiled in response to his old friend. Together they stood over the pensive and dived into the memory.

 

The scene started immediately with the explosion. Dumbledore had already determined that there were likely delayed  _ Reducto _ ’s implanted in the ground. It had been a fairly busy day on that particular avenue, so the explosion had caught several cars filled with a varying number of people. Truthfully, the Deatheaters had struck with frightening precision and destruction. Dumbledore had long since followed every detail of the battle, and immediately went to the rumpled car that had belonged to the Dursleys.

 

He watched as Harry regained consciousness and located his glasses. From there, he watched the wizard cautiously sneak up on the obvious still shaken Harry Potter. From the first time that Dumbledore had seen this part of the scene, he had immediately feared for the life of his student. The very first rendition though, showed a side of Harry Potter that most people never got the chance to see, a survivor. 

 

From his vantage point, he and Alastor were able to see the faraway look in the eyes of the Boy-Who-Lived. Albus was sure that he had run through his limited options and had adapted a plan of action that likely saved his life. A few short sentences later, and an impossibly fast pivot, the Deatheater was unconscious on the ground. Alastor gave a rough grunt in appreciation of the move as the scene moved forward. 

 

The scene with the muggle man had brought a tear to the aged Headmaster’s face. He knew of the student, fleetingly of course, and mourned for her loss. Since the incident, he had already had her placed with friends from Hogwarts and watched by a house elf as she came to grips that she would never see her father again.

 

Harry’s familiarity with pain and with death was most apparent here as he told the man that he would die. For such a young soul, Harry had seen too much pain and heartache. In normal situations involving death, the person afflicted had time and opportunity to mourn. It was not the case for Harry who had to immediately dive out of the way of the spell that claimed the lives of so many before it. 

 

What always took Dumbledore’s breath away was the fact that the boy had taken the Cruciatus curse with merely a grunt. He noticed that sharp intake of breath from Alastor, likely in appreciation of the inner strength of the young man.

 

The demise of Vernon Dursley merely brought a grimace from Alastor, as both of his eyes continued to soak in the scene that he was seeing. Even knowing the outcome, it seemed that the legendary auror wanted to see for himself what the duel was like. For the longest moment, the needless torture of Vernon Durlsey carried on, and Harry looked frozen by inaction.

 

Once again though, Dumbledore noticed the faraway look in the eyes of Harry Potter and watched his wand seemingly appeared in his hands. From that moment, he witnessed what was likely one of the most powerful applications of the Disarming Charm he had ever witnessed, as the force of the spell hurtled the Deatheaters several meters.

 

It had been ingenious of course, to use the weakened body of one enemy as a weapon, effectively giving yourself the advantage once more. He mentally tipped his hat in the direction of the Boy-Who-Lived. 

 

He continued to watch as the young man managed to cast an elemental shield spell that was well beyond NEWT level. Though the two Deatheaters didn’t necessarily appear to be very powerful, Dumbledore knew the vast difference between mature magic and young magic. He knew that any normal 5th year would have died in that instance. For this one in particular to be able to cast such an advanced spell, spoke volumes in regards to the depths of his magic. 

 

The counter-attack launched by Bellatrix had been a clever move that instantly caused a high level of pain in Harry. The fact that Harry stood again always took Dumbledore’s breath away and he could see that it had the same effect on his companion. 

 

Harry’s first kill was one made by both desperation and rage driven magic. Without a word, he had easily lifted an automobile and had  _ thrown _ it at his attackers. With such a large object, they could do nothing but attempt to defend against it. Dumbledore again tipped his hat to the young man. 

 

The lightning spell that Harry sent forth to had at first raised an eyebrow and a disbelieving look. Since the first time Dumbledore had seen that particular scene, he had managed to only always gasp. The thing was, elemental magic was always considered delicate. Most students were taught very basic elemental spells, such as  _ Incendio _ , and  _ Augementi  _ as a means of introducing the field and the dangers posed. The upper level spells were usually only taught out of necessity for the testing. The logic was the idea that most students would stick to the more basic versions of the spells. The upper level spells were always tricky in that the spells themselves seemed to have a life of their own.

 

One could take the examples of  _ Fiendfyre _ in the history books. It was a fire with a life of its own and only wanted to cause destruction. Those that wanted to master the spell were told that the single most important thing would be mastery of their own mind. If the life and will of the spell was stronger than their own, they would fail and likely die as a result. A great deal of power  _ and _ control had to be exercised over the spells. Harry having done one in a battle spoke to great power and focus on his objective. The spell did exactly what he wanted it to do without causing backlash and hurting the caster. 

 

The messy death of another Deatheater attracted the attention of Dumbledore again. Again, the young man had killed, though without meaning to. That would be key in any form of debriefing Harry.  The retaliation from the Deatheaters was swift and painful, and saw Harry coughing up a huge volume of blood. It had been a miracle that he had managed to stand, let alone hold up a shield that had become very battered.

 

What happened next always managed to drive the breath from his chest. He could see the fire of the defiance left in Harry as he spat blood at his enemies. He could see the last breath that he took before the spell took his life. Those images would stay with him for the rest of his life.

 

What he finally noticed, though, was the flash of a golden light that encompassed his student as the  _ Avada Kedavra _ ripped through him. This was another moment in which he tipped his hat to another Potter, this one a red-head.

 

Back at his desk, and after a shot of Firewhiskey for Alastor, there was nothing but silence.

 

“Bloody Hell Albus.” Mad-Eye Moody intoned, his eyes riveted on the penseive.

 

“Indeed my friend.” Dumbledore replied with a nod. “What did you see?” He continued, looking closely at the ex-Auror before him. Long ago, he had noticed that Mad-Eye Moody saw  _ everything _ , which was likely the reason he was so paranoid. He had always been a perceptive person, and his magical eye did not limited to seeing through objects. In most cases, he could  _ see _ magic as it was being used.

 

“The boy has a bit of fight in him. Managed to take out two fully-trained, evil wizards. He knew magic that he probably shouldn’t have. His instincts….they were impeccable, and in some ways evening the playfield for him. I had always heard that he was good at quidditch, but blimey, he could be unstoppable if he wanted to be.” Mad-Eye said, his face full of awe. 

 

“And?” Dumbledore gently prodded. 

 

“There really wasn’t a way for him to avoid a fight. Bloody Deatheaters beat him up bad. But he survived dinnit he?” Alastor spoke, looking back at his long time colleague.

 

“Yes, though I do not know how or why,” Dumbledore replied, interlocking his fingers under his chin. “I’m not yet sure of how this will change him. He has been very, er, persuasive in his last conversations with me. I am afraid that he no longer trusts me as strongly as before. He may even come to you for help, with your particular skills. You have my blessing to train him if you see fit, but do not go easy on him. From what we have watched, we have seen a young man with a powerful will to live and a strong determination to protect himself and others.”

 

“You’re always one to have a plan old friend, what’s it this time?” Alastor asked. Dumbledore thought deeply for a time before resigning himself to a shrug.

 

“For once, I am at a loss for words.” The aged headmaster stated, eyes holding a distant look.

 

**********

_ #12 Grimmauld Place _

 

Hermione Granger watched her bestfriend sit and stare into the flames of the fireplace. She had been watching him for some time now, not counting the previous years that had kept them together.

 

She had long ago abandoned any attempts to see into the room the Professor Lupin and him often vanished into, only to come out hours later sweaty, battered and bruised. She wasn’t the smartest witch of her generation for naught. She knew without a doubt that it was highly likely that Harry was going through some sort of training. She was okay with that, mostly. What mattered to her the most was the fact that Harry hadn’t allowed himself time to properly recuperate.

 

She could only grasp at the faintest edges of her imagination to come up with what he had been through. From the look of his tattered corpse, just a week before, she could not believe that he had held the strength necessary to stand, let alone whatever the professor had in mind for him. She had only seen Dumbledore once or twice, but the man seemed to avoid any area of the house that Harry was in. She had managed to keep to herself, rarely showing her face for meals and hardly talking to the other teens in the house. Likewise, it was hard to tell that there were other humans in the house at times. 

 

Since she and Ginny no longer shared a room, she had plenty of time to herself. She suspected that the same could be said for Ron. The Twins had their own flat above their shop, and Molly had taken to fluttering back and forth between the Burrow and Headquarters. Dumbledore had spoken to everyone and told them to give Harry his space, as he would need it. His tone had left no argument. All in all, it made for a nearly lonely place to be, but that suited her just fine.

 

What she had done is try to get as much rest as possible in the daylight. At night, the house did nothing for her except empower her nightmares. Mr. Weasley had been nice enough to silence her room after he had been walking by and heard her muffled screams through the door. After making sure of her decency, the warm man dried her tears and left her with a few words of reassurance. 

 

What she needed now, though, was her bestfriend.

 

“Harry.” The word left her lips before she had made a conscious thought to form them. He looked startled at first, immediately going for his wand, before his brain made the connection between the word and her voice. He threw his wand on the cushion next to him roughly. 

 

“Hermione.” His voice sounded, full of exhaustion. There was pain there too, of that she was certain. She moved across the room and sat next to him, joining him in staring into the fire.

 

The silence seemed to be infinite, but that suited her just fine. She didn’t see much of him, or any of him at all recently, so she took her time to study him briefly. Some of the scars on his arms and legs had receded a bit. The bruises were smaller too, and he seemed to sit almost uncomfortably on what was likely the most comfortable couch in the entire house. He seemed slightly taller if her estimations were accurate, and even had a bit more weight on him as well. And yet, she still sensed a weakness in him. Call it a woman’s intuition or simply years of spending nearly every day in his company, but Hermione Granger knew Harry Potter. 

 

“Your hair's a mess.” Hermione spoke suddenly, another moment of speaking before her thought was fully formed. Harry tended to have that effect on her sometimes, not that she would ever admit it to him.

 

“Your teeth are large.” Harry replied after a moment of silence. It was a game of theirs that they only used  when they were absolutely certain they were alone. Each was a bit of themselves that they truly had no control over, and it was always a way to prevent an argument between them. As a result, a smile graced Hermione’s face. 

 

_ ‘He hasn’t forgotten about me.’ _ She said, her mental smile far larger than her physical.

 

“Your scar is ugly.” She continued the game. Technically, it had no definable end to it, a bit like their friendship.

 

“You’re tired.” He muttered, as he turned in his seat to face her. His face may have masked the pain at the moment, but she saw the slightest flicker in his eyes. He was still hurting, but would never complain about it.

 

“I don’t sleep well,” She mumbled back evasively. He didn’t need to know of her nightmares; after all; most of them centered around him. “You’re still in pain.” She continued, hoping to turn the side of the conversation back to him. 

 

He simply nodded in response, she was proud that he didn’t ever try to argue with her about most things. He was stubborn when need be, but if Harry trusted you, he was capable of being rational. Well, sometimes. 

 

“It’s nothing that I haven’t felt before.” He replied. It was true, and she couldn’t dispute his claim with any success. 

 

“Have the potions not been working?” Hermione asked, concerned. His sheepish look  _ felt _ different, but she knew she wouldn’t like his response.

 

“Well, that or I haven’t really been taking them,” Harry muttered. “They don’t seem to help.”

 

“Harry James Potter!” Hermione whispered harshly. She paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “Can you do it for me, please?” She spoke. The widening of his eyes let her know that he had be prepared to fight force with force. He hadn’t expected that talent, and he couldn’t reasonably deny her request.

 

“Yes,” Harry sighed. “I will take the damn potions.”

 

“Thank you,” Hermione responded quickly. “What’s wrong Harry?” She carried on, cutting to the heart of the issue.

 

“I’d rather not talk about it.” Harry responded, a bit heatedly.

 

“And I’d rather talk about it. Such a quandary don’t you think?” Hermione responded with a bit of her own force. 

 

“Let’s talk about your nightmares. What are they about? Are they the reason that Arthur placed a silencing charm on your room? Is that the reason that you look dead tired at all hours of the day? Is that the reason you are always moments away from tears?” Harry asked, his questions quiet and deadly. Hermione looked at him with what he probably took as a look of fierce indignation. She schooled her features and looked him steadily in the eye.

 

“I see a Harry Potter, lying still, dead to the world. I wake up to the image of my bestfriend falling in front of me, bleeding from untold wounds, trying to fight what seems to be the inevitable. I wake up because every dream starts the same, and ends the same. I scream because of the pain. Harry, I’m scared.” What had started as a rant fueled by fire was snuffed out by the tears she tried to keep in. With the battered reality of her nightmares in front of her, she could hold back no more.

 

The angry visage of Harry had turned to one of shock and finally pain, as he began to understand the pain she had been dealing with. It took her by surprise when he suddenly reached forward and brought her into a crushing hug. She had felt that he had opened his mouth to respond when suddenly there was the sharp tap of an owl at the window.

 

“Are you expecting a letter, from Viktor maybe?” Harry asked. She could have sworn she felt his body relaxed, almost as if he was happy for a change of topic. As he stood up to open the window, she threw the closest pillow at him, only to miss terribly. “Good thing you’re not on the Quidditch team eh?” He continued, a soft chuckle emanating from him.

 

“Who was the owl for?” Hermione asked, curious. As if in answer, Harry slit the envelope open and begin to read the letter within. Although his back was to her, she could see the sagging of his shoulders as he read further into the letter.

 

“Fucking bastards!” Harry spit out suddenly, any sign of a chuckle evaporated. Hermione knew that Harry wasn’t the potty-mouth that Ron was, yet and still she was surprised at the strength of swear word. Before she could even open her mouth, he handed her the letter, closing the window after the owl that hadn’t bothered to wait for a response.

 

“It’s from the Ministry,” He stated simply. “Apparently, they want to charge me with some things.”

 

“This doesn’t even say what the charges are! It’s almost as if they aren’t sure themselves.” Hermione replied, already on her second reading. She read much faster than Harry did. 

 

“Yeah, and it’s in two days. Some warning.” He responded bitterly. “I guess I should tell Remus.”

 

“Tell Remus what?” The mentioned werewolf spoke, having been quietly walking past. Wordlessly, Hermione passed the letter to him.

 

“I bet this is an attempt for Fudge to save face. I’m sure the Ministry has a way to shut the The Prophet down, or feed it the stories to publish. He can’t have had a grand time at the end of the year when Voldemort stood in the middle of the Ministry of Magic itself.” Hermione spoke, her mind racing.

 

“Hermione is right. I know offhandedly, that he was still trying to work on a way to keep Dumbledore from all of his titles. But, he spent an entire year doing absolutely nothing to stop Voldemort, and everything to stop the very people that knew what they were talking about. My guess is that he is trying to appease his allies, most of whom have questionable associations.” Remus replied, handing the letter to the addressee. 

 

“I can’t catch a break can I?” Harry asked, shaking dark locks. Hermione could sympathize with him. Though, he hadn’t yet opened up to her about what was plaguing him, she knew that this would do nothing but make him close up further.

 

“Don’t worry Harry, I’ll help you. I wasn’t able to last time, but the last visit to the Wizengamot had me doing as much research as possible.” Hermione replied earnestly. She longed for a way, anyway to help her bestfriend with his troubles.

 

“I’ll help too Harry. Between the two of us, we should be able to come up with a way to prepare you for what’s ahead.” Remus followed.

 

“Thank you guys. I appreciate it, really. I need to go lie down.” Harry replied, before heading up to his bedroom.

 

Remus and Hermione shared a look, understanding the weight that the departed young man was shouldering. 

 

“Well, what do you know about the Wizengamot Professor Lupin?” Hermione started. 

  
  


**********

 

_ Harry’s Room _

 

Harry had barely made it to his room before a flash of fire erupted near his bed. Fawkes, the beautiful red phoenix alighted on the desk in his room with a letter in his beak.

 

“Hello Fawkes, I don’t suspect that you will be bringing me good news today?” Harry asked, nearly pleading. Almost as if the bird could understand his words, and he probably could, Fawkes seemed to be reluctant to actually had Harry the letter. It was from Dumbledore:

 

_ Greetings Harry, _

 

_ I have just received news that the Ministry, namely Minister Fudge, is orchestrating a hearing for you. While I do not know the details as of yet, I am certain that it has to do with the incident at the end of the school year. Fudge is not one to go down without a fight. While I am uncertain of the case that the Ministry hopes to build against you, I am certain that you will prevail. If not, we will come to that hurdle when we do. _

 

_ That however, is not the reason for this letter. I received a missive from Gringotts requesting your presence for the reading of Sirius’ Will. As I am down as your magical guardian, they thought to send it to me. Ironically, they have scheduled the reading of the Will to be a few hours before your hearing. I do not know what is written in the Will, as Sirius had it changed several times after his imprisonment.  _

 

_ I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news once more.  _

 

_ With regret, _

 

_ Albus Dumbledore _

_ Headmaster, Hogwarts _

_ Supreme Mugwump _

 

Harry almost ripped the letter the pieces, but a short note from Fawkes stilled his angry hands. He hadn’t realized that he had sat down on the bed while reading. Roughly, he threw the letter to the side and lay completely on the bed, his hands behind his head as he stared at the dingy ceiling above him. The weight of the phoenix fluttering to his bedside table nearly unsettled him, but the soft melody of the bird easily calmed his spirits.

 

He would be asleep before he knew it, his dreams normal for a change. 

  
  



	10. Pieces

Harry woke up the next morning, refreshed and relaxed. Working through his foggy memory, he managed to still feel the imprint of phoenix’s song. Fawkes was always saving his hide one way or another.

‘I wonder what type of treats a phoenix eats.’ Harry thought with a small grin. His joy was short founded as he caught sight of the letters that he had haphazardly throw around the room. His anger flickered to life immediately, causing a brief breeze to whip through the room, not doing much to help neatness of his room. With a sigh, he forced himself out of his bed and into the training room. He’d showered after his workout.

Remus had been helpful in pointing out that while Harry was no longer just skin and bones, he was still extremely thin for his age. He had gained a bit in height, yet still nowhere near his towering red-haired friend. Remus had drilled into Harry the importance of keeping fit, as he had seen all too often the danger that magic users faced because they didn’t know how to move.

“You have to eat Harry.” Harry muttered under his breath, mimicking the last surviving Marauder. Deep down, he knew the man was right though. He needed to eat, and then build his strength up again. He had seen the concern in Hermione’s eyes last night, and the questions that she must’ve had. For once, the Ministry had done some good, even it had only been with the distraction of his bestfriend.

After a hurriedly made breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast, Harry made his way to his new favorite room in the house. After their initial meeting there, Remus and Tonks had managed to charm the room. Between the two of them, they had easily cushioned the floors and the walls of the room. Remus had made it a concerted effort of his to charm the targets that Harry used often, whereas Tonks had focused on the charms to repair the room from all of the damage that was expected. While the mornings were usually left for Harry to do his own practicing, he had made an effort to try to stick to some sort of training regimen.

Firstly, he focused on his aim. He hadn’t realized how big of a difference holding his wand made until he had tried to revert to his old way of doing things. The change was drastic. Where he could normally hit the target 8 out of 10 times, they barely counted as actual hits, and had not been where he had actually been aiming. With Remus’s method, not only had he been able to hit the target itself 10 out of 10 times, he managed to hit the bullseye an impressive 7 out of 10 times. According to Tonks that was better than most Auror trainees. His effort, in such a short amount of time, had been impressive.

He knew that he was behind most other students in terms of knowledge. He simply didn’t know that many spells outright. He had learned the hard way that dueling was far more than just slinging spells around. Once he had gotten a stronger grasp on the spells that he did know, he had begun to go back and learn some of the other spells that were in his earlier books. With the right application, they could be great distractions to slip in with other, more powerful, spells. In a friendly duel, he could use them in various ways.  
Remus had been teaching him to cast silently, especially since it was a lesson that would be used heavily in their 6th year. It seemed most wizards were adept at it, if not completely efficient in its use with all of their spells. He usually tried those out towards the end of his morning workouts, as a way to continue to remember how the spell felt when he cast it.

Today, though, he wanted to try something that he had thought of only briefly. He recalled when he and Dudley had been attacked by the Dementors. He had lost his wand, but had made it light up despite not touching it. He had seen Dumbledore light candles without a wand, and wanted to know if there were any spells at all that he could do. First and foremost, he wanted to be able to summon his wand to himself. Not only would it be mildly impressive, but he reckoned that it could and would be a tide changer in a duel. Wizards and witches tended to relax when you didn’t have your wand on you. They were hopelessly naïve in some aspects, most of them anyway.

Sitting his wand on a chair roughly five feet from his person, he tried to remember what he had been feeling a year ago. He recalled the desperation, and the panic that clicked in, and considered that it would be tough for him to recreate those same emotions without any danger nearby. He would just go for it.

“Accio!” He shouted. To his surprise, not a single thing happened. The wand didn’t even move. He cast another four times before the wand twitched in his direction a little bit. The Summoning Charm was 4th year spell, and he barely had the 1st year spells perfected. But he was ambitious and would not give up until he could summon his wand no matter what.

It took a sweat drenched 30 minutes before he felt the wood slap into his hand. He was so startled that he almost dropped the wand.

‘It worked!’ Harry thought with glee. He cast the spell a few more times, but for the moment his limit seemed to be around 10 or 12 feet. He would increase that slowly with practice.

For the next 30 minutes that he allotted himself, he focused on the physical aspect of his morning workout. An assortment of body weight exercises left his arms and legs feeling fairly weak, but he persevered. When he had first started, it had been simply embarrassing, but he was proud of the strides that he had taken so far. Struggling to stand, he made his way out of the room and into the shower attached to his bedroom. Despite having been in there for nearly a week, he still hadn’t looked in the closet or the desk drawers. Sometime since he had been dropped off there, his trunk had been brought along with Hedwig’s cage. It sat at the foot of his bed, and was the only thing in the room that he had any claim to. Everything else, he had found out, belonged to Sirius.

He had had good intentions of looking through some of the things to see what, if anything, he could use. Instead, he made a conscious effort to avoid the room itself, only coming in to sleep and shower. He kept the room itself because it was out of the way, and surprisingly difficult to find if you didn’t know where to look. There had been a few instances where he simply walked past the door, almost as if it didn’t exist.

The simple fact of the matter was that he was not ready for what, if anything, he would find in his Godfather’s room. Eventually, he would have to tackle it, though he didn’t mean to allow it to happen any sooner than he had to. Some things he could wait for.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Remus sat back with a sigh, having just watched the battle that Harry had, for all intents and purposes, died in. Dumbledore and Alastor awaited him in silence, both having already seen it several times. It, quite frankly, shook Remus to his core, to see the son of his best friend have to fight for his life. Even more, to see the son of his best friend lose his life in the fight. Well, technically anyway. He was still unsure of what had transpired when Albus had brought the young man to headquarters. The sheer amount of magic flowing through the place that night had left him bewildered and in a drunken stupor. It had been strange to him at the time, that the magic of the air had called to the werewolf in him, making him have to fight just to maintain control of his human form.

“Shit.” He muttered softly, aware that Dumbledore likely heard him anyway.

“My thoughts exactly lad. A fight most adults woulda never dreamt of, and fought by a 15 year old kid!” Moody exclaimed.

“Now, now Alastor, I believe that even one such as yourself can agree that Harry is no longer a mere boy.” Albus chipped in with a chuckle.

“I knew he could be powerful, but with the wrong influence, he could become a menace. Did you see some of the spells that he threw around?” Remus asked. He immediately regretted his choice of words. He knew, deep down, that Harry could never be a menace to anyone but his enemies.

“Yes, that is worrying certainly, but I have every faith that Harry is far too rich in character to ever succumb to the thirst of power.” Dumbledore replied.

“If I’m not mistaken, I think you told me that you thought the same thing about Riddle at one point or another.” Moody cut in sharply. Dumbledore took a moment before responding.

“I am a man of many faults, incomplete notions, and mistakes. One thing that I am absolutely certain of is that Harry Potter is no Tom Riddle. Their choices, and their reactions to the struggles in their life dictate who they are.”

“I hear ya Albus, I do. But all it takes is a single moment. One fucked situation before a person can’t recognize who the hell they are, or the shitty life that they are living!” Moody snapped.

“Do you believe Harry to be such a person, Alastor?” Dumbledore asked, quietly.

“Bloody hell Albus, I don’t even know anymore. He’s the second person that I know of that has come back from the flaming dead. I didn’t get to where I am, or live as long as I have by acceptin’ coincidences. Maybe we should be careful what we teach him, or what we expose him to, just in case. I’d hate to be training the next fucking Dark Lord.”

“Remus, Alastor. Harry has too much to live for. He could’ve ran, we saw that. Instead, he continued fighting. He could have run in the graveyard, but he fought instead. He could’ve have caved in for the Tournament, that he never should have been a part of, and yet he won. He could’ve left Cedric’s body, or left Sirius, or ignored the dangers of the Sorcerer’s Stone, and he did not. He ran towards it. That is who he is, that is why I have to utmost faith in him. And that is why I would lay my life down for his, that is why I would do everything in my power to protect his life. It is the least that I can do for James and for Lily. Harry is strong, and we have to be even stronger for him.” Dumbledore spoke, having stood somewhere in his speech to pace the room.

It was silent, as every wizard present reflected on the young man that they knew, and the horrors of his life. They had seen adults crumble in the face of what he had fought through, time and time again. Perhaps, it was as simple as believing in the good nature of the young man.

“I believe that he has some training scheduled today. Albus, maybe you should take the lead on this one. I think you may be able to offer him some perspective.” Remus spoke up after a period of silence.

“That I can, Remus.”

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Harry flitted between the trees, trying his best to lighten his footfalls as he navigated the town around him. He goal was to simply get the the house in the center, but with the caveat that he could not be seen or detected. He had been forbidden the use of his Invisibility cloak, and could only use his wand. If he was detected, it would be five more laps around the town itself. That was not something that he was interested in doing. The town was not exactly small.

Though it was a test, and a safe one at that, he did not relish the idea of more running, though that was one of the lightest punishments that he had seen so far. He had been miffed when Remus, and by extension Dumbledore, had tossed him a Portkey with no explanations. Apparently, this was another test that they had concocted. Truthfully, Harry could see the benefits of learning to not be seen, but it didn’t help that he had limited knowledge on what to avoid. It also didn’t help that he was famous.

‘Damn scar.’ He thought with an inward sigh. His eyes darted left and right. He was still on the fringes on the small town, and so far hadn’t seen any sign of life. He knew that it would not be as simple as walking through the town. With his luck, even on a controlled test, he would likely walk right into Voldemort. That was one fight that he wanted to avoid at all cost.

The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, seeming to sense the approach of something near him. He froze, trying to will his breathing into absolute silence, while fighting the primal urge to bolt from his position.

‘I wonder if it would count if I knocked out whatever it is before it can raise an alarm.’ Harry thought with a smirk, slipping his wand into his hand with as little movement as he could manage. It wasn’t easy, but once he felt the comforting and familiar weight of his Holly wand, he calmed a bit. Of course, that was when all hell broke loose.

He had only the briefest second for something crashed noisily through the bushes nearest him. That split second was all that he needed to roll out of the way and point his wand at the beast. It took three silent stunners before it went down in a heap, still breathing heavily. It didn’t necessarily look large, but whatever the beast was, Harry was happy that he had gotten it down before he had been caught. It seemed that the animal was made of sheer muscle, and razor sharp teeth. It was probably the size of a large dog, but with a much larger head, and teeth that were several inches long. It had a black, and powerful legs that let him know that he would have never outrun it.

He snuck a bit farther in, straining his senses for any information his surroundings could give him. His brief encounter with the beast has taken but a few quick seconds; even still he felt that the pounding of his heart was enough to wake even Ron. With a shake of his shaggy head, he made quick work of the rest of the journey, managing to stumble upon Dumbledore and Remus having a pot of tea.

“Good job Harry. That animal was never part of the test, but we do appreciate you being on your guard.” Dumbledore spoke, silently conjuring another chair for the boy.

“Bloody hell, even my tests are real.’ Harry muttered, ignoring the smiling faces of the adults. “So, what was the point of this?” Harry asked.

“Well, Harry, we never know what to expect. I think your trials this summer were an indication of that. Because you were on your guard today, you were able to protect yourself from the beast that sought a quick snack. What if we had told you that there was no one here to be a threat to you. Would your mindset have been the same? Would you have taken the same precautions?” Dumbledore responded. They were fair questions.

“Well, I guess for a normal person, no. For me, I’ve been fighting my entire life, I’m always on edge. I’m nearly as bad as Moody.” Harry responded with a grim smile. Jokes were fine, but the truth still rang in the silence of the small room they were in. The tension of the silence was broken by Remus standing and excusing himself, stating some urgent errands that he needed to run.

“Ahh, Harry, for the rest of the afternoon, you are with me.” Dumbledore spoke before drawing his wand and motioning the Boy-Who-Lived to follow him.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

In the small village of Weston Patrick, a mere 2 hours from the heart of London, a tall, thin figure stood at the entrance of the town. With fewer than a hundred inhabitant, all descendants of the same ancestors that had founded the village, the village mostly kept to itself. They set their own schedule and lived life the way that they always knew it. That’s not to say that there was no technology there, but they felt comfort living in the embrace of their ancestors. They rarely received visitors, outside of tourist looking to take a look at St. Lawrence’s Church. Today, that would change.

Shrouded in all black, and silent, the figure was invisible to the townsfolk. Pale, long-fingered hands removed the hood covering the face of Lord Voldemort as he continued to survey the quiet village.

“Come Wormtail, you have your orders. Let us greet these Muggles.” Voldemort spoke in a near whisper. Even if one had looked for the second, they wouldn’t have found the man that he spoke to. The short round man had prostrated himself to the Dark Lord, blending in the the dark asphalt of the road. With a murmur, he stood and followed the menacing figure. Voldemort paid him no mind. He was focused on something completely different; having some fun.

It was a small town, nothing grand or usually worthwhile of his attention, but one perfectly suited for an experiment of his. A small wave of his hand sent his cloak to Wormtail for safekeeping. Wand drawn, he began to chant a spell that he called Venom of the Cobra.

“Mortis dominus donaverit ventum. Venae perennis aera intus in auribus meis.” Voldemort breathed, repeating himself faster and faster, still no more than a whisper. As he felt the magic pulsate in the air around him, he twirled his wand in a counter-clockwise circle above his head before a strong slash downward to the ground. Immediately, a dark substance began to flow out from his wand. Thick, yet light enough to be carried on the winds of magic, it billowed away from the sorcerer. With a life of its own it sought its way into the village, slowly attacking the unassuming inhabitants.

One man, with a wild and anxious look in his eyes, crashed through the front doors of his home in a desperate attempt to flee. The black mist sought him out with ruthless abandon; entering through his nostrils, bodily lifting him off the ground. Blood pooled out of every crevice of his body as the curse extracted every bit of his life force. When it was done, his skin was already in a state of decay, baring staying attached to his bones. It was a brutal sight that did nothing but freeze the other citizens in their footsteps. Visions worse than their nightmares lay scattered around them. It was brief and extremely deadly. Within the hour, every inhabitant in the village of Weston Patrick had died.

Lord Voldemort studied his work with a critical eye. Every detail, from the symptoms, to the approximated time of death as recorded by Wormtail. Voldemort took the time to get close to the bodies, and take stock of their condition. Several quiet minutes later saw the Dark Lord reviewing the notes that Wormtail had written, his brilliant mind calculating.

“My Lord, what are we to do with the bodies, this can’t stay a secret forever?” Wormtail asked, daringly. Voldemort merely smirked.

“Now, why would I waste such precious resources Wormtail. After all, everything has its use,” Voldemort replied, twirling his wand once more in anticipation for his next act. “Everything has its use.”

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

The Ministry of Magic’s Magical Law Enforcement Department could not be everywhere in the community. Certainly, there were detection wards and regular, if inadequate, patrols on the highly populated areas. And yet, on the whole, the magical community of Great Britain was not fully protected. The idea was that most witches and wizards would be upstanding pillars of the community and learn to live in harmony with their fellow magic users. Magic-folk, some of them anyway, were ambitious and ready to make changes in ways that they thought certain groups of people would appreciate. Every once in a while, there would actually be a witch or wizard that garnered enough support to the point where it frightened the Ministry.

Wizards of the caliber of Grindewald, who had been both magically powerful and extremely intelligent threatened the very fabric of peace that the Ministry sought to uphold. It wasn’t so much that those types of wizards were evil or dark but that their sense of government did not include the actual Ministry itself. Some wizards, though, did not even manage to make headlines before they were quietly retired. As it was, whenever a threat such as a credible Dark Lord arose, the Ministry took notice, and acted accordingly.

Many years ago, before the fall of the Longbottoms and the Potters, the Ministry of Magic had sent a team of its best Hit Wizards after a self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort, with a lone, low level, wizard to act as the scribe of what was sure to have been an easy victory. The Hit Wizards were lax; they had been on many such missions before that had never went awry. They were confident, almost cockily so.

It had been a massacre.

The scribe was the only one that Voldemort had left alive. Of a team of 7 top-tier Class B mages in the team, none lived to drink the celebratory wine that they had in the official headquarters. Seeing the images live and having a recorded version of them, the scribe killed himself, leaving a note that stated that he did not want to live in a world where a monster such as Voldemort existed.

It had only been the beginning.

Having seized the attention of the Ministry, Voldemort had gained ground quickly. He had turned a well-hidden uprising into an unsafe period for witches and wizards to live in. He recruited heavily while tearing a serious hole in the defenses of the Ministry. It was only through the actions of Albus Dumbledore and his allies, that Ministry hadn’t fallen at the time. No one knew who to trust, as Voldemort’s web of spies and deceit spread discord amongst the closest of family members.

Harry Potter was so heavily celebrated largely due to the fact that there was a tangible peace in the air once Voldemort fell to him. The magical community went from cowering in fear to celebrating in the streets as the news crossed the globe. Even countries as far as the United States felt the presence of Lord Voldemort. Harry Potter, and by extension his parents, were heroes.

And then Voldemort returned. There had been, in his absence, copy cats; wizards that would shoot an awful version of the Dark Mark into the sky after a crime, or even worse, the wizards that wanted to step into the void that Voldemort had left in order to elevate themselves into a position of power. With Voldemort, one never knew who to trust. With claims and allegations coming from every which way, the Ministry had been hard-pressed to properly function. It hadn’t been helpful that the Minister and certain high-level ministry employees only wanted to line their Gringotts accounts.

His return was ignored, largely to the fact that the Ministry itself, and the people that it had in charge had adamantly declined the claims of a 14-year-old Hogwarts student, despite those same claims being backed up by the immensely accomplished Albus Dumbledore. In his previous reign Voldemort had never managed to step foot within the Ministry, at least to their knowledge.

Not too long ago, he stood, battling, impressive despite his dark presence. To have caught him and his followers there, in the heart of the Ministry, for all intents and purposes was a powerful moment. With such a bold move, Voldemort launched himself back into the subconscious of the wizarding population as a menace. A powerful menace that few could hope to survive should they ever cross wands.

Instead of listening to Albus Dumbledore years ago, when he cautioned that Voldemort was not truly defeated, the Ministry, and its leaders, were lax. Instead of preparing for a future possibility of another witch or wizard ascending to the level of Voldemort, the Ministry had bickered about nonsensical issues among the magic folk for a more than a decade.

Kingsley Shacklebolt stood in a now abandoned field, eyeing the eerily quiet town of Weston Patrick. An incredible surge in the amount of magic in the area had called for attention. The first person on scene, a scout with a device that measured the level of the emitted magic in the air, had immediately called for an Auror team. He, a Darious Noordyke, had detected the presence of a ‘S’ class sorcerer, specifically. After the call went through, there were no less than 30 Ministry personnel on scene working to discover the cause.

They found nothing.

If it hadn’t been for the fact that some appliances had still been on, and that some meals had been left uneaten, one would have thought that the inhabitants had abandoned the town. After all, they were Muggles, and no one understood them anyway. No, it was for that very reason that Kingsley found himself observing his colleagues. What scared him was not the fact that there was a strong saturation of magic in the atmosphere, but that there was no evidence of said magic. Most spells, the common ones at least, left tell-tale marks of their existence. The Cruciatus curse, for example, was one that demonstrated itself in hard rattling of the body. Precisely, the Cruciatus curse was still felt for days even after the strongest of pain medications were administered. Though it was possible to mitigate the results a bit, the following actions were still a blur.

He hadn’t even remembered arriving on scene. He had received the call and apparated to the given coordinates, thereby boosting the sheer numbers of individuals on site. He knew, from experience however, that having more people did not mean that more things were being done.

Despite that, everything in his body was warning him that the disappearance of these muggles would be a bad omen. He needed to alert Dumbledore as soon as possible. It smelled strongly of Voldemort.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Harry sat down, exhausted, and slightly bruised. A few hours under Dumbledore’s tutelage, and he realized just how much further he had to go before he would be able to hold a candle to the Deatheaters, let alone Voldemort. Dumbledore had started with a simple duel, but the caveat was that Harry had not been allowed to say his spells aloud. He hadn’t even been a threat to his headmaster. At most, he had made Dumbledore shift in his position, but the Headmaster had stood there, the waves of Harry’s magic breaking upon his stout defenses.

‘This is the man that Voldemort fought to a draw!’ Harry thought, idly looking at his wand. Though Dumbledore had been nice about it, Harry had no reservations that the Headmaster could wipe the floor with him immediately, with barely a pause. The most embarrassing part was that Dumbledore had restricted himself basic household spells! Harry could still feel the not-so-gentle slap of the spatula on the back of his head.

After the “duel”, the moved on to some practical training with silent magic, with Dumbledore doing most of the talking and Harry paying attention like never before. Within minutes of applying said tips, Harry was able to increase his silent repertoire dramatically. Though they still lacked the power of his verbal spells, Dumbledore had assured him that with practice and confidence, the difference would not be noticeable.

Then they moved into the basics of conjuration.

Though a NEWT level skill, Dumbledore had reasoned that Harry could use the added knowledge. From Dumbledore, Harry had learned that the beginning stages of conjuration were already taught at Hogwarts, namely spells such as Augementi and Avis. Other spells were simple forms of conjuration, but the field itself was flexible within reason. The most important part, was the intent of the spell. It wasn’t as simple as waving your wand and hoping for something to come. Through sheer intent, one could create many things from magic. Dumbledore had reiterated that the words that were commonly used for spells, were simply not necessary. He had used the duel between himself and Voldemort as an example of what accomplished magic users could do when they had the proper training.

And still, Harry felt overwhelmed. He had no idea how he was supposed to master these techniques, let alone survive an encounter with a man that had mastered them and did them as easily as breathing.

“Professor,” Harry found himself speaking. “How can I beat him? He’s so strong.”

“Harry, it will not be easy. I will admit that when it comes to sheer magical power, Voldemort is likely my superior.” Dumbledore responded. Harry was floored. Voldemort was more powerful than Dumbledore!

“But sir, you beat him in at the Ministry. H-how can this be true?” Harry asked, slightly panicked.

“Ah yes. I beat him in a duel. Do you think a fight truly shows who is more powerful? Wait, before you answer that, consider that a magical duel is not the same as say a wrestling match. Would you expect to beat any of your professors in a duel?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry simply shook his head. He had seen some of the things that the professors could do, and had no misconceptions that he could defeat them.

“You are both right and wrong. I think you could take a few of them in a duel. Dueling is not necessarily about magical strength, or even magical talent. All it takes is a single spell, a miscalculation, or a moment where lack of experience holds you back. What do you think helps in a duel?” Dumbledore asked. His style of teaching was more discussion that giving commands and hoping that the student could interpret it correctly.

“Er, I would say knowledge of spells? And, perhaps reflexes if you get caught off guard and need to move out of the way. I, honestly, don’t know professor. Haven’t been in too many duels before today. Honestly, I don’t even know much about magic itself, I just do things and make things happen. Hermione is the thinker.” Harry replied, getting slightly flustered. He really didn’t know much about magic, and its application.

“Ah, my apologies for the assumptions. Let us discuss magic, as you were supposed to have it explained to you. I had left a rather thick letter with the Dursley’s once I had dropped you off. Did Petunia not share this with you?” Dumbledore asked.

“I knew nothing of the magical world until my Hogwarts letter came.” Harry replied. Had he been looking, he might’ve caught the broken expression on the headmaster's face, or the way he seemed to age significantly.

“Magic is everywhere Harry. There is no algorithm to calculate the quantity of it, or any tool capable of measuring the depth of it. It simply is. What we can measure though, a rough estimate mind you, is how much magic is within a certain individual. A test is done on every child that the Ministry has record of. This is not a fail safe, but it allows the Ministry to keep an eye on general power levels of the citizens. Now, the reason that this is a rough estimate is because magic goes through so many changes. Some parents opt to suppress the magical talents of their child to control the volatility of accidental magic. At a certain age, usually when they receive a wand, such suppressions are removed as the wand acts as a conduit of sorts. Following me so far?” Dumbledore paused.

“Yes sir.”

“Some young children simply have to grow into their potential. Depending on their environment, their instinctive magic will respond accordingly. There are some witches and wizards that are simply more powerful, or have more magic accessible to them. It does not seem to have a huge bearing on parentage. Quite a few muggleborn students are, in fact, more powerful than their pureblood counterparts. Indeed, some research has pointed to the idea that Purebloods were and are actually getting weaker as a result of trying to keep their blood status pure. That’s a topic for another time though. The point is, Harry, if you were to have a child, we could not completely predict how powerful the child may be. There is generally a range of power levels, but there are instances where two powerful purebloods create a Squib.”

“But sir, what does this have to do with my fighting Voldemort?” Harry asked. As fascinating as the information was, it wasn’t helping him to fight, or learn to fight.

“Plenty. You think that you are not strong enough, but you are far more powerful than you give yourself credit for. Your case, and where you doubt yourself is in the actual application of your talents. Voldemort is an S-Class Sorcerer, do you know what that means?”

“No.” Harry replied simply.

“Great, that means more lecture for you. In general there are five distinct ranges of magic users. Those that are of the D-class, are not very powerful at all. In the muggle world, it would be akin to someone without any sort of formal education. Not that they are incapable, but they have limited resources available to them that allows for them to be successful, to an extent. A C-class magic user is usually the lower end of the general population. They, if you will forgive me, are likely what a great deal of Ministry workers are. Usually, on the practical side of magic, they are capable but not overwhelmingly powerful. A B-class magic user is the lowest level that we allow to teach at Hogwarts. They have to be able to demonstrate any and all spells within their curriculum, as well as fix any mistakes from them. These witches and wizards usually specialize in a few areas once their general schooling has ended. Following?” Dumbledore spoke. Harry, meanwhile, was trying to categorize some of the people that he knew, ashamed of himself for even having the thought.

“I think so, I may have questions at a later time though.” Harry spoke, thoroughly confused by the entire concept.

“Excellent. A B-class wizard would likely constitute for the majority of the Auror Corps, and a great deal of the DMLE. An A-class wizard usually end up being teachers of very specific specialty. Remember though, that it does not necessarily take a great level of magic to master a certain class of magic.Then, finally, there are S-class magi. Those simply have a greater level of magic at their beck and call. I think that’s simple enough.” Dumbledore spoke.

“So, do you have any, well, examples of these classes? It sounds like the Ministry is still trying to control and monitor people.” Came the response.

“Indeed, in some circles, it does appear to be that way,” Dumbledore spoke, stroking his long beard. “But it really helps educators specifically tailor a plan to a specific student. Some students manage to be a great combination of power and academic ambition. Others tend to fall on either side of that spectrum. The Ministry did adopt it as a means to monitor the population, and keep an eye on those that they deemed could pose a threat. Before my accomplishments, I was heavily watched I am sure.” Dumbledore spoke, shrugging with the last statement.

“To answer your original question though, I am an S-class, I believe that your parents and their friends were all high B-class, or low A-class. They had a great grasp on magic, and were relatively great in all of their classes. Fletcher, who I believe you have met, is a C-class wizard. McGonagall is a solid A-class. The Weasleys, Molly and Arthur mind you, generally fair on the B-class side of things. I will not tell you about individual students though, that is still private knowledge until they are adults.”

“What am I then?” Harry asked, truthfully fearing the answer. What if he were a D-class, having to fight an S-class wizard such as Voldemort? He nearly shivered at the thought.

“Well, you were an anomaly. When first tested, you were projected to be an A-class wizard. However, after recent events, we had you retested after the fight near Privet Drive. Your magic has, well grown. We are still unsure as to the cause, having never tested someone that has survived a Killing Curse, let alone twice.” Dumbledore spoke with a chuckle. Harry had to grin sheepishly at him.

“I never feel like I am strong enough.” Harry muttered.

“Power isn’t everything Harry. Yes, in some cases it does make a difference, but it is not absolute. As I stated, Voldemort is likely more powerful than myself. And yet, I have nearly have a century more knowledge than he does. He’s likely faster, but I know more techniques. He uses his anger to power increase the damage of his spells, but with the connection that I have with my magic, I am more precise in my casting. You see, some people use too much magic in their spells, and forces them into being. I have learned to not waste magic, and I know what to use and when to use it, and more importantly how to use it.” Dumbledore spoke, seemingly angry that Harry would think so little of himself.

“But -” Harry started to respond, only to be cut off by the harsh voice of his Headmaster.

“Stop! You have more love in your heart than any other wizard that I have ever met. That love is the key to your strength, and it allows you to be more and to be stronger. Alas, it is not something that I can simply define for you. It must be something that you come to understand on your own, and for yourself. That being said, I will not allow you to tarnish the memory of your parents and their sacrifice for you. That is all that I will say on this matter.” Dumbledore spoke, his eyes flashing, nearly striking fear in Harry.

“I’m sorry sir.” Came the short response from the Boy-Who-Lived. His heart wanted him to speak out against the Dursley’s and nearly everyone he had met before coming to Hogwarts, and how they had not had the highest opinion of his skills and abilities. He withheld, though, despite recent events, he was quite used to only having himself to rely on. He was unused to people generally caring about him and his wellbeing. In some cases, it even frightened him. The Dursley’s had certainly done a number on him.

“Do not be sorry Harry. Just remember that there are some people that really do care about you.” Dumbledore responded, his visage returning once more to the affable Headmaster that Harry knew and loved. “Now, I believe that we are finished for today. It would not due to exhaust you before your trial.” Dumbledore spoke.

“Yes, and Sirius’ Will.” Harry responded his smile fading quickly.

“Be strong my boy. All will work out in the end. Let’s get you home and cleaned up. You have a big day ahead of you, and you must need rest.” The wizened wizard spoke. “And Harry, do not let the conversation that we had, disturb the good that you know to exist in people. The most powerful, and the least powerful of witches and wizards can do the most good without ever raising their wand or uttering an incantation. Magical or not, the good in people rests in their heart, and not the might of their magic.”

 


	11. Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thrill of a will. The will of a minister.

Gringotts. It was probably not the first place that a wizard wanted to be in the wee hours of the morning. It was definitely not the place that a young wizard, still pondering the death of his Godfather, needed to be. Despite his support system, in the forms of his bestfriends, the Weasley’s, Remus, Tonks, and Dumbledore. Despite that, the presence of the Malfoys, Narcissa and Draco, put a damper on his spirits. Not that he really needed any help in that area. Between the calculating look given by the mother, Harry still had to contend with the smirking from Draco. It made him want to cross the room and strangle the blond boy.

 

It had already been a long night, full of tossing and turning. Add to that, it was a dark and dreary morning full of rain, bitter tea and stale biscuits. Really, it was an awful morning. Even the room where they had been left by a nondescript goblin was dark, dreary, and stuffy. Harry hated it. Having never been to the reading of a Will, he had not known what to expect. He hadn’t truly found the inspiration to ask, and didn’t have the heart to look for such motivation in the first place. He didn’t even want to _be_ here. And yet, ultimately, he found that he himself was the very cause of the reading.

 

In the short time since the battle, he hadn’t had the proper time to consider the backlash of the passing of his Godfather. He had gone immediately from the battle to the Headmaster’s office where he was immediately bombarded by with his fate. He had fumed, raged, and cried most of the night away, and still hadn’t reached a place where he could comfortably say that he was okay. He had never truly faced a death that had affected him.

 

He had been too young in the matter of his parents. He had never known any of the extended family members of Dursley’s, and even if he had, he doubted that his relatives would have allowed him to be around. They probably thought his being a _freak_ would taint the ceremony. He had never been to a funeral. And, the only time he had stepped foot inside of a graveyard was when Voldemort decided he needed to come back to his body.

 

All in all, it was an unsettling experience for Harry Potter. Add to that, he was facing the Ministry again, shortly after this reading. He was ready to go back to Grimmauld Place and throw himself into his training. At least that was something that he was used to. At least his training was something that he had some inkling of control over.

 

His entire existence, for the most part, seemed to be largely out of his control. And when he did have control, fleeting moments to be certain, he was still _not_ in control. He had always been in a position where he was responding to someone in control. From his first year with the troll, to the more recent attack on his person by Voldemort’s thugs. The question was, he often wondered, was how to make it possible for him to be in control. The defeat of Voldemort was certainly an appealing, if extremely difficult, task.

 

Before he could get further with his line of thinking, he was interrupted by the gruff voice of a goblin. He hadn’t even noticed that he had even entered. He had been too absorbed in his thoughts once again.

“Now that we are all gathered. We shall begin the reading of this Will immediately.” The Goblin spoke. Whether speaking gruffly, or simply because of his nature, his words brooked no arguments. “Questions will be answered after the initial reading. Now, to begin.”

 

Harry, having never been to a Will reading, let alone a magical one, did not know what to expect. When the goblin uncovered a large pensieve inscribed with an indiscernible number of runes, his breath caught. His mind blanked briefly, and the air that had been in his lungs burned in an attempt to be released. It was only Hermione grabbing his right hand that allowed him to finally breathe again. What had seemed an eternity, but had only actually been a few seconds, had done nothing for his composure. He didn’t need to look to his bestfriend to see that she was concerned for him. He had never expected to actually hear the voice of his Godfather, and with his penchant for luck - or lack thereof - it appeared as if he would be doing far more.

 

HIs premonition served to be correct as the Goblin tapped a few of the runes. Simultaneously, the lights dimmed and the room appeared to be even quieter than before. And then Sirius appeared before him. It had clearly been a post-Azkaban Sirius. Though his face was still withdrawn and a bit haggard, there was a smile on his face and certain light in his eyes. He looked _happy_ for once, and when he began to speak, there was a certain strength in his voice that belied the past twelve years of his existence.

 

“I, Sirius Orion Black, being of exceptional mind and quite the sexy body do hereby swear that this is my Last Will and Testament. Shut up Moony, I heard that!” Sirius began, the levity always a moment away from him. Harry spared a quick glance in the direction of the last remaining Marauder to see a look of longing on his face. Harry hadn’t even really given thought to the fact that Remus had seemingly lost everything. Making a mental note, he continued to listen to the last words of his Godfather.

 

“Unfortunately for Old Walburga, I was never banished from the family. Therefore, the Black Family Fortune, _my_ fortune, is to do with as I please as the Head of House. Firstly, to my cousin Bellatrix, I leave nothing. I highly doubt she’d be here in any case, but just to make it uncontestable, I had to say it. Narcissa, I leave you 1 Galleon, as I know that you will never leave Lucius, and I _refuse_ to support Lord _Voldyshorts_. Draco, as Heir of Idiot, you also get nothing. Goblin, please escort them from the premises.” Sirius voice nearly boomed. It was silent for only a few ticks of a watch before Draco spewed forth a stream of obscenities.

 

“Who the _bloody hell_ does he think he is? I am next in line to be Head of House. He can’t give me nothing!” Draco fumed storming from his seat to approach the goblin. The goblin, quiet before, instantly appeared defensive and shifted subtly into a battle stance.

 

“Draco!” Narcissa spoke. Having never heard her voice before, the sound of it threw Harry for a loop. It was delivered in a shrill voice that forced Draco to stop dead in his tracks. “We are leaving. Potter, this isn’t over.”

 

With that last line, the matron of the Malfoy family shifted her robes into position and stalked, gracefully, out of the room. The younger Malfoy followed shortly after, likely realizing that he was making a complete fool of himself. Harry knew, though, that this would only make situations worse with Malfoy. The git was likely to hold a grudge for eternity at being one-upped by Harry Potter again.

 

“Excellent, now that they are gone, I can finally put this title as Head of House to good use. Andromeda Tonks is hereby fully reinstated as a member of the Black family. Her dowry shall be reinstated, and because I can, I will toss in an additional 50,000 Galleons. To cousin Nymphie, and you can’t kick me this time, I leave 50,000 for you as well. I want to thank you very much for helping me to reintegrate into society after my stay at Azkaban. You will never know how much it meant to me that you saw me as family and not as the insane lunatic that most others saw.” Tonks, usually happy, had tears running down her face. It seemed that her time with Sirius was just as touching to her as it was with him.

 

“Molly and Arthur,” Sirius spoke again suddenly. “You took Harry into your home with modest means and never once asked for anything in return. You were the family that he needed when he had no one else. For that, there is not enough Galleons in the world to repay you. I know that you are often looked down upon as lower-class, but when it comes to matters of the heart, there are few richer. I am leaving you two 100,000 Galleons. Hopefully this helps, and no, you cannot give it back. It doesn’t work like that.” Sirius finished with a smirk and a wink. The Weasley family said nothing, but the expressions on their faces showed that they were awestruck. Padfoot, though, was not done.

 

“To each of the Weasley children, even the oldest two, I leave 30,000 Galleons apiece. That should allow you the freedom to purchase some of the things that you desire. You are all very rich in spirit and heart though, and not many people can say that. Don’t let the money change you. Fred and George, I also left you a few books that will allow you to, well, they’ll allow you to cause hell. They were from when Jame’s and I were in school. Ask Harry to tell you the story of the Marauders.” The smiles from the twins was infectious to everyone present, despite the somber mood.

 

“I doubt the eldest brothers are here, but I hold each of them in the highest esteem. Ginny Weasley, such a beautiful, bright, and fiery young woman. Your strength is impressive to behold, and you have the makings to become a brilliant witch. I pray that you never let that waver. Ah, and that leaves me with just Ron. Ron, the Marauders were never the perfect group of friends, and we had our fair share of downs. But when we were strong, we were nearly invincible. I remembered that whenever i looked at you with Harry and Hermione. You all have something very special between you, don’t lose sight of that.” The redness in Ron’s face was deep and dark and indication of the sheer emotion that he was under.

 

“Albus, only Merlin knows where I would be had it not been for you. Though you tend to do things on your own time, you always have a way of helping those out in need. You’ve been handling the great burden of the wizarding world since before I was born, and you still do it now. The Order is here to help, and we want to help. At the very least, you can trust Harry. He needs your guidance more than he knows, and you need to be there for him, to protect him, and to teach him. For you I leave 100,000 galleons. Though, I know you don’t need the money, I’m sure you can find a way to put it to good use. For Hogwarts, I leave 500,000 galleons. There are likely some repairs that need to be made as a result of my stay there, and some poor kids that cannot get in.” Albus, always the calm and stoic one, had a look of great pain on his face.

 

“Remus. I’m sorry brother. I should have been there for you. We left you all alone for so long, and yet you stayed faithful, and strong. You were always the smart and calm one. Harry is going to need that now. We both know that he has a tendency of acting before he thinks clearly. Reminds me of his old man actually. I leave you 500,000 galleons. Clean yourself, find you a reason to smile, and continue to keep Harry company as his Godfather. I made it official should anything happen to me.” Harry could hear the soft sobs of Remus from across the aisle, and mentally lent him his strength. He knew he would need it for himself soon.

"To Hermione," Sirius began, unaware of the sharp intake of breath from a the subject. "Words cannot express how much you mean to me, and even more so to Harry. You trusted me without hesitation and helped to save my life. I can never repay that debt. You and Ron need to keep Harry whole because he needs you, whether he knows it or not. I leave you 50,000 Galleons and a section of the Black Family Library, separate of the books that I will give to someone else. Merlin keep you strong." The tears flowing down the face of his bestfriend made his heart lurch, especially knowing that he was next.

“Harry,” Sirius began, his voice breaking a bit. “I can never begin to ask for your forgiveness for being there for you for most of your life. I loved you as if you were my own son, and sometimes wished you were. You are so full of life, courage, and sacrifice. Some people will tell you that you remind them of your father, for your looks and your boyish charm. Others will say that you remind them of your mother for you eyes and your fierce protectiveness of those that you care for. I say that you are the very best version of both of them. You never knew them, but I did, and they would be proud of you. For me, there was no greater honor than to be your Godfather. I leave you everything that I have left, including the name of Black. There’s a lot of stuff included in that name that I never thought to look into. It may prove useful to tap into some of it. I love you Harry, never forget that.”

 

Harry could feel the prickle in the back of his eyes, and allowed himself to close his eyes to hide the emotion. He felt a hand slither into his and deliver a tight squeeze of support. After only a few moments, the hand retreated but the feeling of support never left. He opened his eyes, ignoring the feeling of every eye in the room upon him. He looked at the specter of his Godfather hovering above the lips of the pensieve, and resolved to never let his death be in vain.

 

“Mr. Potter, I have just a few things for you to sign here.” The goblin spoke. Harry made his way to the front table, preparing to toss a few jagged lines on the paper and continuing on the rest of his tough day. “Mr. Potter, I have taken the liberty of setting up an appointment for you. One, I think you should take advantage of. It would be best to let no one learn of it, but you are to return here two days from now at 11am promptly.” The goblin continued in a whisper. Harry simply nodded that he understood before standing from the table.

 

He made as if to turn around, before abruptly throwing his hand out to the goblin to shake. There was a moment of hesitation before the goblin roughly grasped his hand and gave it a rough shake. After another nod, Harry turned on his back foot and headed out of the room, never looking back to see the speculative look on the face of the goblin.

 

He had a minister to see, and he could not afford to be late.

 

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

 

“Aurors, please bring in the accused.” Harry heard a distant voice.

 

Harry found himself being escorted, none too gently of course, down the long hallway. He knew the way there, but the Aurors that had been waiting for him in the Atrium had been very explicit in their duties. He had taken the time crossing from the huge fireplaces that lined the far wall and observed what had once been the scene of a magnificent battle between Voldemort and Dumbledore. The room still showed signs of the vicious fight between the two wizards. Deep gouges lined parts of the walls on account of their missed spells, the power evident from the sheer size of some of them. There were still scorch marks on the ground from Voldemort’s manipulation of the Fiendfyre, evidence of the heat of the spell. Most telling though, to Harry at least, was the absence of the statue that had once been a proud resident of the Atrium.

 

This was the same courtroom from the year before when he had been forced to use the Patronus charm to save he and his cousin from what would have been certain doom. If anything, though, this time it was even more packed with people. Outside of the stern faced wizards that would dictate his fate, there was a crowd of reporters waiting with bated breath for his trial. Outnumbering even them was the mass of Hogwarts students, both supporters and criticizers. The huge room was abuzz with low conversations. Harry sat with his eyes to the floor, contemplating his fate.

 

While he thought it ludicrous that they were trying to send him to Azkaban for _saving_ the Ministry, he realized that he would need to stand up for himself. He couldn’t allow himself to be taken advantage of. He had far better things to do. Indeed, he’d much rather be running the laps for Remus as opposed to sitting here. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he completely missed the beginning, the only thing snapping him out of his pensive moment was the absence of the crowd’s noise.

 

“We are here to see justice done for damages caused in the Hall of Prophecy, the Atrium, and various hallways within our building. The accused, Harry James Potter, shall stand trial for his actions. He is being charged with 1st Degree Vandalism, 2nd Degree Secrecy Violation, Impediment of Law, 4 Accounts of Trespassing, 2nd Degree Reckless Endangerment, Numerous Accounts of Aggravated Assault, 4 Accounts of Attempted Murder, 1 1st Degree Account of Aiding and Abetting, and Numerous Accounts of Improper Use of Magic. How do you plead Mr. Potter?” Amelia Bones asked, looking him in the eye.

 

“Er, to which charge in particular Madame Bones?” Harry said, feeling slightly nervous at the sheer numbers of eyes viewing him. From what he had heard, Dumbledore has been barred from coming to his aid, despite being the Supreme Mugwump. He had heard the Aurors discussing it as they were “escorting” him to the room. For some reason, unknown to him, they had not taken his wand.

 

“Smart boy. For the record, we simply need a guilty or not guilty plea from you.” Madame Bones stated, surveying Harry intensely through her monocle.

“Well then, let’s see if I remember correctly. Not guilty.” Harry replied. While he had thought of the various ways in which he could respond to the predictable question, he had decided to keep it simple.

 

“Your plea will be noted as in accordance with our governing laws. The prosecutor for this case will be the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. Questioning done by members of the Wizengamot. Are you certain you wish to forego a professional representative for your defense?” Bones asked, seemingly off script if the mutterings were anything to go by. At the shake of Harry’s jet black hair, she continued. “Minister, when you are ready, you may proceed.”

 

“Thank you Madame Bones.” Cornelius began, waving and nodding to a few select people in the crowd. “It is with heavy heart that I stand before you my dear members of the Wizengamot and the members of the community at large. The very place that we use as the center of our power was broken into by a group of teens led by one we all know, Harry Potter.” There was a gasp of breath from those that didn’t know the story firsthand, and cries of outrage from those that knew the truth.

 

“Let there be order!” Madame Bones snapped, rapping her gravel several times.

 

“It is true my fine wizard folk. A young man that we hold in such high esteem and with such high regard, has failed us. He is a danger to the community, and I, for one, will not have his kind on the streets of our beautiful country. We have worked too hard to carry on our traditions for a young man to be so ignorant of them that he threatens to rip apart and destroy the very things that make us wizards. Society has an order, one which Mr. Potter does not seem to care for. Using his fame and popularity, he’s managed to create a following that endangers our prosperity, and our safety. If anything, he is on the path to becoming a Dark Wizard, just like the man he vanquished on that fateful night.” Fudge continued, sweetening up the crowd. Harry had to give Fudge a few points in the way the man owned the court scene. Hermione had found that before he was Minister, he had been a defense attorney in the wizard courts, and had been successful at all indication. But that was in his younger days, when he hadn’t been corrupted by power.

 

“Mr. Potter, were you indeed in the Ministry that night?” Madame Bones asked. Fudge glanced at her in annoyance, but if Harry knew anything about Susan, it was that her aunt was respected and honest.

 

“Yes.” Harry stated. He had decided to try to stick to one word, when possible, in hopes that they didn’t try to use his words against him.

 

“Mr Potter, did you use dangerous spells?” Madam Bones asked further.

 

“Yes.” Harry stated again.

 

“What spells did you use that were dangerous?” A man asked from behind Madame Bones.

 

“Primarily _Reducto_ , though it was never aimed at a human being.” Harry replied. He would not mention the failed Cruciatus curse, after all, he hadn’t actually hurt Bellatrix to his knowledge.

 

“Why did you use these spells at all Mr. Potter?” Fudge asked.

 

“Our lives were in danger and we were outnumbered and the smartest thing to do was to run. To run, we needed a distraction that the rows of orbs provided.” Harry stated, nailing the rehearsed line.

 

“You see, he doesn’t even deny it! The nerve of him.” Fudge uttered to the crowd. “He breaks into our building and destroys the place as if it is some property to him.” Harry sat there silently, his face belying the building rage within. Remus and Hermione had prepared him for some of the questions that would be thrown his way, but they had not readied him for the words of a seasoned politician. He was nearly prepared to take Fudge’s head off for the disrespect. Having never liked the man, he had to appreciate the almost-Slytherin like manner in which he retained power.

 

“I asked you a question Mr. Potter!” Fudge barked, snapping Harry back to attention.

 

“I’m sorry Minister, I dozed off for a bit. Would you mind repeating?” Harry spoke, without a hint of the internal smirk he wore. Various members of the audience, including the Wizengamot, chuckled at the incredulous look on Fudge’s face.

 

“See here! He makes a mockery out of us. I asked you why did you break into the Ministry of Magic?!” Fudge repeated. harry sighed.

 

“I didn’t break in. I came in through the front door, stated my name and my intentions and went ahead as a person normally would. There was no kicking down of doors. There was not any picking of locks. I didn’t even have to use magic to open the door. I walked in. I even have the badge to prove it.” Harry replied. He had been prepared for that question, though Fudge didn’t look too happy with that answer.

 

“What were you doing off of school grounds?” Fudge asked, trying to trip Harry up. Again, Harry was prepared.

 

“Minister, with all due respect, I do believe that is a school related matter, and therefore out of your jurisdiction.” Harry replied. He withheld the smirk upon seeing Hermione grin out the corner of his eye as he nailed the answer. Remus, being a werewolf, had not been allowed to come.

 

There was a moment of silence as Fudge glanced down at a list of questions he had seemingly prepared in advance.

 

“You are being charged with Reckless Endangerment, do you know why?” Madame Bones asked.

 

“Because Minister Fudge has a vendetta against me?” Harry replied innocently, not missing the numerous smirks and the snarl on Fudge’s face.

 

“You are being charged because you led teenagers to a dangerous situation.” Fudge stated, barely sustaining his air of calmness.

 

“Led, sir, would imply that I made them come with me or that they did not have a choice. You can ask any of them that I was set and ready to leave on my own.” Harry replied. It was the truth, he _had_ been ready to leave, but saner heads had convinced him that 6 was better than one.

 

“How did you get to the Ministry?” A woman in the ranks of the Wizengamot asked. Harry didn’t recognize her.

 

“I flew here on a Threstral.” Harry replied. There was a gasp from the audience. Apparently, despite not being able to see the creatures, most people had a bit of knowledge about them. The woman herself even looked impressed.

 

“That’s illegal!” Fudge cried out looking about him for support from his constituents.

 

“Prove it.” Harry responded quickly. Through Hermione, he knew that while the Ministry had decrees to _protect_ all the magical animals, they couldn’t very well police those same creatures. Baffled, Fudge began to turn another shade of red, as if the anger within him was slowly reaching its peak.

 

“You destroyed hundreds of prophecies that belonged to the Ministry, are you denying that?” Fudge asked.

 

“Yes. I deny destroying the Ministries property. Maybe I’m wrong, but none of those glass spheres had anything to do with the Ministry. How can they be _your_ property?” Harry responded, enjoying the look of frustration on Fudge’s face.

 

“Mr. Potter, you are also being charged with 4 accounts of Attempted Murder. Do you know why?” Madame Bones questioned again.

 

“No. I was under the impression that as long as you feared for your life, you could retaliate with necessary force. That charge makes no sense to me.” Harry replied, he had figured that the charge was tacked on by Fudge to simply have a convincing reason to have the entire Wizengamot in front of him.

 

“That would be correct Mr. Potter.” Bones replied, inclining her head towards him. “You are also being charged with numerous, 22 in fact, Accounts of Improper Use of Magic, can you explain.”

 

“Madame Bones, I did not know that magic could be used improperly when fighting for your life.” The earnest expression on his face belied his true confusion. This charge was plain _stupid_. Fudge really _did_ have a vendetta against him.

 

“That is also correct, on some points. Magic is to never be used to harm another human being, except upon protecting one’s own life. Though, Mr. Potter, had you not been here, would you have had to fear for your life?” Madame Bones asked.

 

“Yes.” Harry said simply. Voldemort was back, and therefore his life was always in danger. From the look on Madame Bones’ face, Harry could tell that she wanted to ask follow up questions on that point but was cut off by the Minister.

 

“Is it true that you were in cahoots with the notorious criminal, Sirius Black?” Fudge asked, completely throwing Harry off. He hadn’t expected this question, at least not so soon. How had Fudge known that Sirius as there? Fudge was obviously bent on trying to make Harry look as bad as possible by bringing out Sirius so soon.

 

“I fail to see what that has to do with anything Minister.” Dumbledore spoke up from his position in the ranks of the Wizengamot.

 

“I wasn’t talking to you _Dumbledore_. Keep your comments to yourself.” Fudge snarled, almost desperate for some sort of advantage. The crowd gasped at the blatant disrespect towards whom many considered the most powerful wizard alive. Dumbledore, though, showed no reaction. If you knew him however, you could see the hardening of his eyes and the lack of his trademark twinkle.

 

“You will respect Headmaster Dumbledore, _Minister_ Fudge.” Harry spoke out. He could see Dumbledore discreetly shaking his head as if to tell him to avoid this particular battle. “To answer you, yes. Sirius Black was my Godfather.”

 

“Aha! So you aided him in his escape, and helped him to hide all of these years. It is a most grievous crime to assist a criminal! Why you should be locked up on the spot.” Fudge started.

 

“Minister, might I remind you that Sirius Black did _not_ have a trial, but was simply _thrown_ into Azkaban for 12 years? Should I remind you also that in order for someone to _be_ a criminal, and indeed break the law, that they have to be submitted to a trial first, by this very same body of government? Or should I remind you that it is not a crime to escape from a place that you were _illegally_ held in, even if it was by the government.” Harry responded, thinking quickly. He didn’t know much about the law, but he did know that without a trial, one couldn’t truly be accused of committing a crime. Cornelius was flabbergasted, to say the least. The crowd was abuzz with chatter and witches and wizards who did not know the entire story of Sirius Black mumbled their confusion.

 

“Is it true that you attacked a representative of this government, one Delores Jane Umbridge?” A random man asked, signifying that Fudge had lost that particular round.

 

“That is not true. I never laid a hand or wand on her. In fact, she nearly used the Cruciatus Curse upon me and another student. Any actions against her, though mild, were to protect me and my friend.” Harry responded. If they wanted to go off topic, he could play that game too!

 

“The boy lies! I would never --” Delores stood, though there wasn’t much of a difference to her height in his opinion.

 

“That’s _Mr_. Potter to you.” Harry responded. He still hated the woman dearly.

 

“There will be order! The next person to speak out of turn will be asked to leave.” Madame Bones spoke. Harry could see that she was getting irritated. “Minister, please proceed.”

 

“The fact of the matter is, Mr. Potter has no respect for the proper authorities. He is unruly, unsafe, and needs to be disciplined.” Cornelius spoke hurriedly, trying to regain lost ground.

 

Harry could clearly see the frustration and the rage that Fudge was attempting to hide. His every action seemed to be an attempt to avoid further embarrassment by the young man before him. It hadn’t been Harry’s goal, but he could possibly push Fudge to his breaking point, and even get a true reaction out of him.

 

“Mr. Potter? Is there anything to add?” Madame Bones asked.

 

“No. I believe that the facts speak for themselves.” Harry said, slightly disappointed in the fact that he had failed to keep his one word answers going. Madame Bones nodded.

 

“You cannot simply break into the Ministry of Magic and begin to think that you will not be punished for it! It’s preposterous.” Cornelius Fudge spoke, his voice rising with every syllable.

 

“But --” Harry tried to respond only to be cut off by the acting Minister of Magic again. He had no legal representation, and the Wizengamot was still behind the Minister.

 

“You are a spoiled brat Potter! I’ll not have you setting a bad example for the rest of the decent magic folk of Britain. You have a history of endangering your fellow students, disregarding our laws. You even used magic upon your Muggle Aunt! Your lack of control and pitiful attitude to the safety of others is dangerous. You are dangerous. You are probably in cahoots with You-Know-Who. You even admitted to working with Black! You are a disgrace to the Potter name.” Fudge yelled, not noticing the hardening of Harry’s eyes. “I have half the --” Fudge ranted on.

 

 ** _SLAP!_** The sound could be heard throughout the entire courtroom as Harry slammed his hand to the table in front of him. Powered by his anger, the table, though magically reinforced, very nearly cracked at the touch of his palm.

 

“Shut up you fool!” Harry roared, his eyes flashing dangerously and his outburst stopping Fudge completely.

 

“That is no way to address the Minister of Magic! I will be respected!” Cornelius responded after a few moments of silence in the courtroom.

 

“When I feel that you are worthy of that title - and you will never be - I will address you as such. You are a pathetic excuse for a Minister. You’re supposed to be a leader and yet you flinch at the mere mention of the name VOLDEMORT!” Harry said, standing and yelling out the name, inwardly rejoicing at the obvious flinching in the crowd. He did not miss the reporters scribbling furiously. “You want to throw me in Azkaban, you’ll have to stop me first. If you do get me there, I’ll break out and destroy the place when I do.” Harry spoke, further shocking Fudge to sputtering silence.

 

“As the Head of House Potter and the steward of House Black, I hereby take your words as an insult. You have two choices. You can apologize, and hope I forgive you. Or, you can meet the business end of my wand. You have 30 seconds before I decide for you.” Harry spoke, daring Fudge to reach for his wand.

 

“This is unheard of, you cannot challenge the Minister of Magic to a duel you foolish boy!” Fudge shouted indignantly.

 

“I’d like to point the Wizengamot’s attention to Article 4 of the Familial Protection Act that states that a Head of House or a Steward of a house can, at their discretion, choose to defend their family from harm, whether that intended harm be physical, magical, or verbal in nature. This law transcends titles. I could challenge Headmaster Dumbledore if I so see fit, or even a First Year student at Hogwarts. So you see Minister, I can. You have 5 seconds.” Harry responded, his jade green eyes flashing in anticipation.

 

“The court hereby apologizes in the place of one Minister Cornelius Fudge for insults against House Potter and House Black, of which Mister Harry James Potter has dominion.” Madame Bones spoke hastily. There was no need for a wandfight, especially an unfair one.

 

“I accept your apology Madame Bones. As for you Cornelius, you will not receive any further warnings. Look at the facts. You yourself saw Voldemort here, not too far from this very room. After I have been telling you for an entire year that he had returned. What did you do with the information? What have you prepared? Who have you protected besides yourself? If any questions need to be answered, we need to know why you chose to sat on the information that could’ve saved dozens of lives already? Why have you been so _pathetic_ in your attempts to protect the general population?” Harry replied. Sitting down from when he had stood with his hand on his wand. He hastily, and hopefully unnoticed, took deep breaths to calm himself.

 

“The court will now adjourn to deliberate. We shall resume within an hour.” Madame Bones spoke while lightly rapping her gravel.

 

Standing quickly, Harry exited the courtroom with Hermione, somehow, already on his heels. He could’ve sworn he had just seen her in the stands to his right.

 

“That was brilliant Harry. But you must keep your calm. Don’t let that twit of a Minister frustrate you too easily. You’ll work right into his plan.” Hermione spotted as soon as they were a mere dozen feet from the doors. Harry didn’t respond, intent on reaching a destination of his that he had just considered. Quietly, he heard Hermione speaking as they walked, giving him a few pointers, a few tips, and more than a few corrections.

 

“Hermione!” Harry said suddenly, startling the older girl into silence. “I hear you and I appreciate your knowledge. Right now, I just really need a moment. Can I have that?” Harry pleaded. He needed to slip out into Muggle London before the courts resumed. Hermione simply nodded in response.

 

Inwardly, Harry fumed. He had wanted to reach out and strangle the pudgy man, damn the consequences. He flicked his hood up as he neared the end of the hallway in a way to avoid the eye of the reporters, though unknown to most, a small beetle flittered by.

 

Harry had exited the Ministry and was well on his way to a secluded park when he confirmed that he did indeed hear the small buzzing of the insect. He had counted on her using her form to spy on him; he could use this to his advantage. Spotting an out of the way bench only a few blocks away from the Ministry building, Harry sat down and waited for the beetle to approach. Suddenly he reached out and snagged the bug in his fist lightly, not allowing room for any escape.

 

“Hello Rita. Fancy meeting you here. You will transform or I may forget that there is a witch that resides in the body of this beetle.” Harry said quietly, knowing that she heard every word. He waited a few seconds before he sat her on the bench beside him. Before too long, the woman herself was there.

 

“How’d you know it was me?” Rita asked, slightly disturbed that the young man has actually _threatened_ her.

 

“I saw you fly in and land on the wall. Not truly stealthy, but no one else noticed you, so you must’ve done something right. Also, Aurors walked right past you on their way out and you didn’t move an inch, a normal bug would’ve flown off in a rush.” Harry responded, still surveying the area around them.

 

“What do you want from me then? I haven’t written anything bad about you, as promised.” Rita asked, puzzled.

 

“You are going to help me.” Harry responded, finally turning and looking at the woman. His green eyes were hard, alerting her to the fact that she didn’t have much of a choice.

 

“Why would I do that? What’s in it for me?” She replied, ever the greedy woman.

 

“I am going to give you a story.” Harry said, watching her eyes light up. “You will write down the facts that I tell you and you can even add your own spin to it, make it feel like you really wrote it.”

 

“Why me?” Rita responded. Harry looked at her thoughtfully, intrigued by her continued defiance. He gave a small laugh before responding.

 

“Everyone deserves a chance at redemption. You get your story, I get what I want, or you get squashed.” He saw her gulp rather noticeably. “Relax, I’m not that mean. I just don’t believe in working with you without first giving you the terms that won’t be changed.”

 

“What’s your story?” She asked, reaching into her bag for her notebook and QuickNotes Quill. Before she realized it, Harry had drawn his wand in a flash and aimed a quick _Incendio_ to the quill, turning it to ashes in seconds. He had tucked his wand back in his robes before her head had even whipped back to him. He succeeded in shocking Rita Skeeter into silence.

 

“I don’t trust you with that quill in your hands.” Harry said simply, not offering an apology. “What’s going to happen to the wizarding world that is led by a Minister that is afraid to speak the name of the evil that has plagued us for decades? What’s in store for the magical world when we have a Minister that is in cahoots with known Deatheater Lucius Malfoy? When will the Minister of Magic begin protecting the people, recruiting more aurors, passing legislation that halts the progression of Voldemort? Is the Minister of Magic capable of doing the one vow he should never break? That is, is the Minister capable of caring for common people, more than his own feelings or his own bank account? Also, we should look into the Minister’s finances, he seems to have a few private accounts, which in his position would be quite suspicious.” Harry spoke, pausing to look at Rita’s wide eyes at the questions that he was posing.

 

“Anything more?” Rita asked as she made a few notes.

 

“Yes. Why are we wasting time and valuable Ministry resources attempting to charge a 15 year old student with pathetic crimes when all he wanted to do was save his Godfather? Why was Sirius Black thrown into Azkaban without a trial? Why was it that,despite these allegations, Sirius Black was still one of few people that came to the rescue of the Ministry of Magic? Why is Fudge so hell bent on protecting himself? What is he hiding? Who is he hiding it from? Did you know that in my 4th year Fudge had Bartimus Crouch Jr. kissed without a trial? Without even seeing what the man had to offer as far as information? Why was our Minister so panicky? Why _is_ he so panicky? Are his secrets dark enough to hurt our citizens, our beliefs, and our ideals?” Harry stated, continuing his rant while Rita scribbled away.

 

“What’s troubling is that I can’t even completely blame all of that on the Minister. We elected him. We kept him in office. We allowed him to continue to lie to us to manipulate us.” Harry spoke again.

 

“What do you want Harry?” Rita asked tentatively.

 

“I want Fudge out of the office of the Minister of Magic. Elect someone worthy, someone good.” Harry replied.

 

“Who would you recommend?” Rita asked, knowing that Harry’s word carried a lot of weight in the magical world now.

 

“You’re asking me? Er.. I’m just an underage wizard.” Harry replied with a laugh. He hadn’t completely thought this entire process out, and hadn’t been prepared for her question.

 

“You can’t ask for the removal of a person from office, and not offer an idea for a suitable replacement.” Rita said with an honest look in her eye. “With what you have so far, and the allegations against Minister Fudge, you can certainly get the ball rolling on getting rid of him. Some of these questions will require me to dig a bit, but it could lead to the right places. On the other hand, you could have one of his friends get in there in his place, or worse an open supporter of You-Know-Who!”

 

“How about Arthur Weasley? He’s a good guy.” Harry posed, thinking of the first name that popped up.

 

“Arthur Weasley? Really? He’s not strong enough for the spotlight. No offense.” She added after seeing Harry’s eyes harden. “You need someone that is used to power but hasn’t let it corrupt them. Arthur could be good as a deputy Minister, but not in the official post.” She explained. It made sense to Harry. Arthur was a hardworking, humble man.

 

“How about Madame Bones, with Arthur as her recommended second in command? The Weasleys are far tougher than people take them for.” Harry posed. He could see Rita tumbling the name around in her mind.

 

“She could work. She’s certainly respected enough, and used to a marginal bit of power, and she’s trustworthy. You-Know-Who wiped out most of her family you know, she has a reason to want to fight him. She would certainly have the sympathy vote.” Rita stated, scribbling on her parchment once more.

 

“Good, I have to go. Send me a draft before you publish.” Harry replied, standing up to leave. After taking a few steps, he turned around to address Rita once more. “And Rita, I am more dangerous to you know than you know.”

 

A short walk later found Harry re-entering the Ministry of Magic, once again covered by the hood of his cloak. He managed to make it to the courtroom without incident, though he did spot Umbridge and Fudge speaking to each other in a harsh tone, if their facial expressions were anything to go by. Once everyone was back in place, the hearing proceeded.

 

Harry ignored most of what was being said by various members of the magistrate; they always took forever at this point. He was ready get back home and continue his recovery. He could feel the bandages around his torso becoming a bit wetter as his blood seeped from his wounds. He had to clean them and then put another layer of ointment on it. The cursed wound caused him various issues, but he would not complain about it. There was no reason for anyone to suspect that he wasn’t recovering as well as he had led them to believe. Hopefully Remus would let him rest and Hermione wouldn’t pester him as much. Harry pushed his thoughts to the back of his head as he saw Dumbledore stand up.

 

“I, as Supreme Mugwump, have been asked to relay the verdict against young Mr. Harry Potter after today’s proceedings. In the case of the 22 counts of Improper Use of Magic, Mr. Potter is found not guilty, on the grounds that protecting his life, and those of his friends, supersedes the word of said law.” Dumbledore announced, pausing his speech for the applause that rang out.

 

“In the case of Reckless Endangerment, Mr. Potter is found guilty on the grounds that he did indeed leave the protection of school grounds. He is to be assessed a fee of 2,000 Galleons.” Dumbeldore continued, again pausing for the reaction of the crowd.

 

“In the case of Aiding and Abetting, both sets of charges, Mr. Potter is found not guilty, due to lack of credible evidence, and also to the point that Sirius Black was not criminally charged. In the case of Aggravated Assault, Mr. Potter was found not guilty. In the case of the 1st Degree Vandalism, Mr. Potter is charged as guilty, and will be assessed a 500 Galleon fee. In the case of the 2nd Degree Secrecy Violation, Mr. Potter is found to be not guilty. Mr. Potter was also found not guilty for the charge of Impediment of the Law and the 4 Accounts of trespassing as the Ministry logs clearly show that he and his party announced themselves and their intentions. In regards to the charges of Attempted Murder, Mr. Potter was found not guilty. There can be no attempt at murder when one is simply protecting themselves.” Here, Dumbledore paused again as if he had more to say.

 

Harry himself was not worried about the money, he had more than enough to cover it from the interest alone. He was relieved, he would admit, that he did not have to think of a way to break out Azkaban. He came back to focus on the matter at hand, Madame Bones had begun rapping her gavel again. Seeing that it was not working, Dumbledore simply cleared his throat and quieted the entire room instantly.

 

“It is the determination of this court that Mr. Potter and his friends were acting out of sheer bravery, despite the possible and literal threat to their lives. Instead of being awarded, we scolded them. That is not the job of the government.” Dumbledore spoke, not looking at Fudge but understanding that everyone knew whom he was talking about.

 

“Now see here -” Fudge started. Dumbledore spoke over him, softly, but his voice reached every corner of the room.

 

“Let it be noted that our government has a lot to learn about bravery, and doing what is right, even at the cost of neglecting to do the easy thing. Let it be noted that we condemn those that protect us, and uphold those that wish to do us harm. It is a sad day that this is indeed a reality. Therefore, this court would like to take a stand and attempt to write wrongs. It is the decision of this court to reward Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, Miss Weasley, Mr. Longbottom, and Miss Lovegood a 3rd Rank Order of Merlin for their services to the country. It is the decision of this court to award Mr. Potter with a 2nd Rank Order of Merlin for his actions to protect this country.” Here the crowd erupted thunderously. Harry himself was flabbergasted. He had not expected this sudden change of events.

 

After a few moments, Dumbledore motioned for silence again, but was slow to speak. Looking at him, Harry could tell that the old man had many things that he wanted to say, but due to his position was unable.

 

“Are there any questions from either the Plaintiff and the Defendant? No? Then this court is now adjourned by the power granted upon me a Supreme Mugwump. You are all dismissed.” Dumbledore spoke, he was easily followed by a few sharp raps from Madame Bones’ gravel. The woman certainly did seem to like it.

 

Once again, Hermione managed to catch up to Harry despite the size of the crowd and the reporters that were clamoring to get near him. He, as politely as possible, refused to answer any of their questions, though he almost drew his wand on a man looking to push past Hermione. He reached out to grab at her hand and guide her safely to him, while actually drawing his wand and reaching under his robe for his Invisibility Cloak that had been tightly folded and tucked away should he need it.

 

“Let us be away from here Miss Granger.” Harry spoke. With a smirk, he flicked his wand, causing a bright light and smoke to ensue. In the chaos that followed, Harry and Hermione managed to vanish into thin air, though a few hallways away showed the young pair whipping off the Cloak and quickly folding it again as they walked towards the bank of Fireplaces.

 

“I can sense another article coming from that stunt.” Hermione said disapprovingly, though her eyes showed her humor.

 

“They’ll write about me regardless. Unfortunately, I’m used to it.” Harry responded after a quick moment to think of his response. The truth was that he was indeed used to all of the reporters, and he hated them for it. He didn’t get flustered as much now when they wrote ridiculous articles about him, but he did get frustrated with the people that saw him nearly everyday and seemed to believe the rubbish.

 

“You shouldn’t have to be though Harry! It isn’t fair.” Hermione said, stopping her forward motion and looking at Harry. Realizing that she wasn’t keeping pace with him, he stopped to turn and look at her.

 

“Would you rather it be someone who couldn’t accept it? Or, rather, someone that flaunted it? No, it’s me. I make do with it.” Harry replied with a bit of heat in his voice.

 

“I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I just hate that you have to go through so much, and you only want to live a normal life.” Hermione replied.

 

“Normal huh? What is a normal life, where do you find one of those? What does it look like? We do what we must with what we have. Now come, let’s go home.” Harry replied, forestalling any attempt at a response from the bushy-haired witch. He reached out his hand again, and she begrudgingly reached for it as they continued their journey to the fireplaces.

 

“Thank you Hermione, I appreciate you more than you know.” Harry said quietly as a way to apologize for his heated tone.

 


	12. Chess Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knight to H-3

The owl fluttered through the open window, landing softly on her desk. It was early, so it could only be the latest Daily Prophet article. It would be interesting to see how they portrayed the current events. Whose side would they take? It was obvious that there was a power play in motion, between the Minister and unknowingly, the Boy-Who-Lived. It was more of the Minister of course, struggling to stay in power, and to hold onto some semblance of power. Unfortunately, he had tried, and still was trying to do so at the expense of a young man.

It was despicable. She put those thoughts aside to continue to read.

_MINISTRY LIES! Is Cornelius Fudge Ushering Us Into a new Dark Era?_

_This reporter received a shocking exclusive from the normally media shy Boy-Who-Lived. The hero practically begged me to sit with him, and I am happy that I did._

_Just a short time ago, we found ourselves realizing the truth in that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has indeed returned from the dead. This, as my readers are aware, is a complete turnaround from what the Minister has been claiming for the past year. This paper, too, was guilty of not believing the words of Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter._

_It almost makes one wonder what the Ministry gained from concealing his return. The Minister, of course, was not available to comment. But sources close to the Minster’s office claim that there had not been any substantial proof as to the return of wizard. The Minister believed, according to the source, that Potter was attempting to gather more attention and political sway for Dumbledore._

_“It is well documented that Dumbledore wants the Minister's position.” The unnamed source continued. This reporter would like to note the numerous occasions in which the Headmaster declined the position, always believing that he was home at Hogwarts._

_We must ask ourselves how can we continue to support a MInister that ignores potentially dangerous information. A suitable peacetime Minister, but there can be no way that Cornelius Fudge is the Minister to lead us through these dark times. Indeed, the Ministry is in shambles and in no position to protect its citizens._

_In another power attempt, Minister Fudge convened the entire Wizengamot to hold a trial in regards to the actions of Mr. Harry Potter in this past June. For those unaware, there was rumored to be a large battle underneath the Ministry before the Battle of the Atrium in which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sighted. This was not the first time that the entire governing body of Britain was convened to seek to punish Mr. Potter. Just the previous summer, Mr. Potter was cited for creating a Patronus charm in front of his Muggle cousin. When questioned, Ministry officials refused to comment._

_Readers, it gets worse. This is not the only time that our Minister has found it prudent to bury information. A year ago, in the confusion after the Tri-Wizard tournament, it was revealed that Master Auror, Alastor Moody had been captured and had been replaced by Barty Crouch Jr. using Polyjuice. Upon viewing the evidence, again revealed by Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter, Minister Fudge had a Dementor swoop in and administer “justice”. Could the information held in the head of Crouch Jr. have been what this country needed to prevent the power of You-Know-Who._

_When asked about the possible motives behind the actions of the Minister, Mr. Potter had this to say:_

_“I honestly don’t know. Maybe the Minister does not have the strength of will to battle Lord V --- (Mr. Potter insisted on using the name). I want to know what he is hiding? I just want to live, go to school, and have fun with my friends. Instead, two summers in a row, I am brought before the Wizengamot due to protecting my life and the lives of others. It’s strange really. Even the Daily Prophet spent the entire year calling me crazy. The people need someone to rally around. Is that really Cornelius Fudge. I am all for his removal from the highest seat in government. We need someone that we can trust to have our best interest at heart.”_

_Well said from our young hero. When asked who he would replace the Minister with, Mr. Potter had this to say._

_“I’m just an underaged wizard.” He stated with a near chuckle. When pressed, he looked thoughtful before continuing, “How about Arthur Weasley? He’s a good guy. Or even Madame Bones, she seems to be a fair and level headed witch.”_

_It would seem that Mr. Potter is not so concerned with the political side of things as he is with his own personal life. Indeed, he is an underaged wizard. But his accomplishments rival that of some of the oldest in the world._

_It is time for Minister Fudge to step aside? If so, who can we trust to lead us. I managed to find a few moments with both Arthur Weasley and Madame Bones._

_“Me as Minister? I don’t know. Harry has always been able to see the good in others, even before they can. Whoever has his backing, well… I would think they have a good shot at succeeding.” Came the response from the Patriarch of the Weasley family._

_Madame Bones voiced a similar opinion, “It is because he does not have experience in politics, that Mr. Potter can make such recommendations. Being in the actual position, though, is completely different. I too believe that a change is necessary. It will be a matter of what’s best for the country.”. With several departments heads voicing their doubts in the Minister and his decision making, it seems to be just a matter of time before a replacement is needed._

_This reporter will keep a close eye on proceedings. Until next time._

_Rita Skeeter_

She put the paper down. She was happy that Skeeter had managed to get all of her quotes correct. It had infuriated her of course, when she had found out that Mr. Potter thought she would make a suitable Minister. It made her want to reach out and strangle the boy for putting the thought in the head of a reporter. And yet, it was possibly just what was needed. Harry Potter was at an all time high for the moment, and it would be wise to not make an enemy of him. Despite not living in the political world, he was very savvy in his choice of articles. It would force her to make sure she paid even more attention to the Boy-Who-Lived.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Lord Voldemort sipped from a smoking goblet, contemplating his plans. It was bittersweet that Fudge was nearly on his way out of office, but he knew that such a situation could not hope to last. Fudge wasn’t exactly a supporter, but his being in the highest public office had worked very well. He was greedy, and his greed had done nothing but secure his place in the government, while pushing forth the Pureblood agenda.

“The poor bastard didn’t even see it coming.” Voldemort whispered to himself. Fudge would need to be replaced of course, but until then, the change of leadership could work to his advantage. He needed to secure the rest of his followers, and branch out to the factions that he knew to be sympathetic to his cause. This time it would be different, he was certain of it. He would no longer underestimate the forces posed against him.

He had often wondered about the happenings of the night when his spell flashed back at him. He had never experienced such backlash from his spells, even the experimental ones. What he knew for certain was that he had not been defeated. His return was a testament to that. All his experiments and ideas had come to fruition. Even he, with all his intelligence, had had his doubts about his ramblings, and his mad thoughts. Truthfully, the whispered conversations of the darkest magic available hadn’t necessarily been the best leads. But eventually, and inevitably, he had pursued lead after lead to finally come one step closer to immortality. It had been a sign that he was on the right path, and for the right reasons.

“I am Lord Voldemort.” He whispered, catching the attention of his Familiar. She was hungry, but would not go out to hunt without his permission. Such was the control that he held over her. Such was the might of his magic. “Go and eat my beloved.” He whispered again and watched in fascination as she faded into the shadows of his chambers.

He treasured loyalty. Submissive loyalty, but loyalty nonetheless. He had known, years prior, that dealing with humans, or any creature that could think for itself did not lend much to the idea of true loyalty. After all, most had their own ambitions. More so, it wasn’t just loyalty that he demanded, but _capable_ loyalty. It would matter little to have a group of loyal, incompetent fools. He could trust precious few, and he knew that fear of him and his capabilities could only go so far. But it would have to be far enough.

He knew that he could not win this war on sheer magical strength. Oh, he could most certainly level Muggle London if he so desired, and likely without even using his full strength. And yet, he knew that his rule needed to have a place able to be ruled. It would be far less than desireable to win the war, only to have nothing to celebrate for.

Fear and destruction _did_ work though. That was a fact. But it had to be measured. One could not simply throw their might around and believe the common people to _not_ stand up for themselves eventually. In this type of war, you had to make them believe that that was what they wanted all along. There would be a few obstacles in his way, he knew and expected that. And yet, he was unworried. He knew his way to be right. Even if it wasn’t, he would make it right.

It could be no other way.

He needed to shore up his troops. The excursion into the Ministry had proven to be a successful failure. A failure because he had to show himself in order to get the prophecy and to protect his followers. It was also a failure because _despite_ his presence, he had failed in both regards, and the Minister saw fit to stumble in at that time. It was a success because people knew he was back. He, Lord Voldemort had seemingly returned from the dead, adding a mysterious streak to his already powerful image. It would go a long way to mold the minds of the general population. He would, of course, exact the necessary revenge from all of those that opposed him.

After a few more moments, he himself stood, never one to be truly idle. A few steps past the doors to his chambers and he found Wormtail, dingy and dirty, but ready to serve.

“My Lord.” The rat groveled. He _was_ useless, but in a useful sort of way. It was an enigma that Voldemort had long ago stopped trying to solve. Whether loyal by fear, or love, Wormtail had proven himself capable of serving out his wishes. After all, not many of his other followers had sought him out after the incident in Godric’s Hollow.

“Come Wormtail. I shall have you witness this next piece of magic.” He whispered, knowing the rat would follow regardless. He had plans for the remains of the villagers he had eradicated. Despite leaving enough evidence to raise alarms across the entire country, he felt confident that no one would see to his goal.

He arrived at the door to his private labs. There were plenty of rooms set aside for his experiments, but this one was exclusive to only himself. No one else could enter due to the combination of blood magic and his own unique magical signature. He, of course, encouraged his followers to experiment. After all, they were all accomplished magic users in their own right. Usually, it was a simple matter to enhance plans of their own, or finish their failed experiments to make them actually useful.

Much like the Goblins in Gringotts, he pressed his hands to a hidden panel to the right of the door and whispered his passphrase in Parseltongue, getting a quick flash of vibrant blue as confirmation. Had anyone else attempted, there would have been a pause before the runic wards flared into an Anti-Apparation ward, trapping the would-be thief. From there, there would be a contained explosion, powerful enough to level a village on its own, but only meant for the materials within the room, and the trapped individual on the other side of the door. It was one of his finest creations.

He smiled, as much as he could, as he entered his domain. All around him were potions and projects held in powerful stasis fields to preserve the work. There were many that he paused out of need for more information, or due to sudden insight into another project. For today’s task, he needed to finish a project that he had completed before; only this time, there would be far more upgrades.

Along the far wall lay the main ingredients for his next piece of magic. Bodies. Literally hundreds of bodies were thrown haphazardly into a large pile, that would not have fit outside of the use of powerful magic.

He could _feel_ Wormtail flinch beside him. Such was the strength of his cowardice. And yet he was loyal. That was all that mattered.

The last station, closest to the bodies of the many villages that he had ravaged within the last few days, was his goal today. He casually raised his hand, his wand appearing as if by magic. Left, right, counter-clockwise, flick upwards, flick downwards, pull back and jab forward. The bodies and the large cauldrons that he had been working on rose simultaneously. Each body had a specific rune inscribed into their forehead, that once activated by the potion, would pulse. All he had to do was carefully, _very_ careful, drench the rune with a very particular amount of the potion.

It took nearly an hour, but he was done at last. He looked carefully at the assembled beings, looking for any discrepancies in his magic. He knew he would find none, but one was never too careful. He had planned this _meticulously_ , ever since his rebirth. To him, it was a chess game. Every piece had its place. One lost the game when they didn’t utilize a piece to its fullest potential. In some cases, the pawns were just as important as the King. It was even better when the pieces did not know that they were the pawns.

Such was his intelligence.

“Behold, Wormtail. The first of my _Inferi_.” Voldemort spoke, his magic causing the runes on the forehead of the creature to pulse steadily.

It was a beginning.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

“Kingsley, how is the search coming in that Muggle village?” Amelia Bones asked. She was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and a woman that gather the respect of allies and enemies. She was a powerful and intelligent witch, graduating in the top percentage of her class at Hogwarts. Diligently, she has risen through the ranks as a Hit Wizard, humbling her own ambition as she went where the Ministry needed her help the most. It hadn’t hurt that Voldemort has slaughtered most of her family in the last war. Now, she strove to protect everyone. Especially since the menace had returned. Already, there were whispers in the streets, cautious store owners, and nervous citizens. And Voldemort had had an entire _year_ to gather his strength and his forces. She adjusted the monocle on her face to hide her brief flash of irritation at the failings of the Minister Fudge.

“Director Bones, it has not been easy. We took as many samples as we could before we had to relinquish the scene to the muggle authorities. Our initial analysis has determined that this is something we have never seen before. With no survivors, and no bodies, it is almost as if they have vanished from the face of the earth.” The deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt spoke.

Amelia let out a heavy sigh, looking around the conference room that held some of her senior Aurors and Hit Wizards. It was her war council of sorts, without the Minister, who was not likely to make it through the end of the week with the current climate.

“We need to hit known sympathizers of _His_ forces! We need to hit them hard! This has to be the work of _Him_.” Came the voice of Rufus Scrimgeour, a man that reminded everyone of a lion stalking its prey.

“Rufus, you know good and well that that is something that we _can’t_ do. If anything, that will only serve to cause a widespread panic. Right now, the situation is contained from the general public.” Came the reply from a blonde Hit Wizard by the name of Jacobson. He came from a long family of Law Enforcement officials. It was like that for all of the males of their family. He even had two twin brothers currently set to graduate the accelerated program in a few weeks. They would need all of the manpower possible to fight another war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

“I agree.” Came the voice of Kingsley once more. He had always been a sensible and loyal man.

“Bloody hell! Can you not see that this has You-Know-Who written all over it?” Rufus responded, showing a flash of his own annoyance.

“We can’t do something for the sake of doing something.” Amelia responded. “What we need is concrete evidence that something is going on. If you hear rumors, bring them to me, we’ll discuss a procedure and from there we can make sure that we are taking the right steps. Remember, we all have the same goal here. We want Voldemort finished, and for good this time.”

“Alastor, what are your thoughts?” Rufus asked. Normally, he would not be invited to such a meeting, but with the return of Voldemort, they needed every single wand they could get. He had been reinstated with full privileges, and the role of Special Advisor. In his tenure, he had been one of the effective and powerful weapons, and never wanted anything to do with any of the politics of the Ministry. He only wanted to catch the Dark Wizards.

The grizzled man was quiet for a moment, his magical eye flitting around crazily, trying to see everything at once. “Unfortunately, I have to side with Director Bones here. _But I do not disagree_ with the approach of Auror Scrimgeour here. We do need to show force, but it needsta be measured. We gotta show these bastards that we mean business.”

The answer seemed acceptable to all there, and quickly thereafter, the meeting adjourned. Everyone knew their orders anyway.

“Rufus, Alastor, Shack, please remain behind.” Amelia’s voice cut in as everyone stood to leave. “I am hearing reports that a muggle neighborhood was practically saturated in battle magic. According to reports, it was close to the home of Harry Potter, and we have not been able to locate his Muggle family. Do you know anything of this?” She continued once the room had cleared. She did not miss the quick glance that Shacklebolt shared with Alastor Moody. She knew that they were both part of the Order of the Phoenix of course, and yet their collective goals were the same. She had no reason to restrict two of her best fighters from doing some good for the war.

“Director, Harry Potter was attacked by who we know to be Bellatrix LeStrange and three previously unknown accomplices. Several muggles were killed in the explosion that they set off. They were likely delayed Blasting curses implanted into a metal disk that acted as shrapnel of some sort. It was extremely effective. We have yet to determine how Mr. Potter survived the initial blast.” Kinglsey spoke, his shouldered squared and his words succinct.

“Let’s not focus on that. He has survived a lot of suspicious instances. We cannot account for him at any rate. We don’t know if he is truly friend or enemy. He even broke in not too long ago.” Madam Bones responded.

“Technically, the security system gave him and his friends access. However, I do not disagree with your analysis Director.” Rufus spoke up. He didn’t have as much knowledge as the other two gentlemen that Amelia held back, but he did possess a powerful mind.

“Potter would give his left arm for someone that he _didn’t_ know.” Alastor Moody finally spoke up. He had heard some of the more vicious details of his tales from Albus. Hell, he had even _seen_ the battle. “I’d like to think, if anything, that he was more on our side than _we_ were.”

“Be that as it may, we cannot rule out the idea that Mr. Potter could develop a sense of true independence from the British Ministry of Magic. He has enough political clout and power that we would have to be extremely careful in handling him. We do not need a mass panic on our hands because of his _opinion_.” Amelia spoke, always the rational one.

“Auror Shacklebolt, continue your report.” Scrimgeour spoke, redirecting attention to the bald man as he himself continued to plot.

“When I arrived on scene, Mr. Potter had already been relocated to a safe house for his protection. It was my understanding that he had Albus Dumbledore as his source of personal protection.” Kingsley spoke. His last comment received raised eyebrows. For those old enough, Dumbledore was nearly a god-like figure in regards to his sheer level of power. “I cannot speak of where they were located, only that Dumbledore himself assured Mr. Potter’s protection. From the scene itself, it looked as if a vicious battle had taken place. We found the remains of his muggle family, and that of several, at the time, unidentified bodies. Once we were able to piece together the samples left, and the magical signatures of the scene, we got a hit on Bellatrix LeStrange, but not one on any of her assumed accomplices. We had to do an area-wide memory wipe to contain the Statute of Secrecy, but we have assured that nothing has leaked. “ Kingsley continued.

“Any other pertinent details?” Amelia asked.

“Honestly, no. Our spells were over-ridden by the sheer power of the spells unleashed. Potter was definitely fighting for his life. Strangely, though, so were the attackers.” Kingsley spoke, his voice hiding none of his confusion.

“Do you believe that Potter responded in kind?” Rufus asked. Kingsley took a deep breath, considering his response. He considered his loyalty to both Dumbledore and the Ministry, as well as his personal ideals. His answer could very well spell more trouble for Harry Potter.

“Frankly, Director, I believe that Mr. Potter responded with as much force as he was able in order to respond to a deadly threat. He had to have been wounded from the initial explosion. Add to that, he was fighting against several qualified and vindictive spell-casters, with no formal knowledge of combat. He did the best that he could. Regardless of that, he survived and most of his enemies did not. If anything, he did what was expected of a wizard that has, essentially, been hunted his entire life.” Kingsley responded.

“What is your professional opinion of his temperament, his skillset, and the his threat level to the general public.” Bones asked, cutting to the chase. She _trusted_  Kingsley, and therefore would value his opinion over that of any of her other Aurors.

“Director, Mr. Potter is a wizard of extreme power. From brief interactions with him, he has exuded an uncontrolled power that could one day rival, or exceed, that of Albus Dumbledore. In the same instance, he is untrained, and unfamiliar with the strength of his magic. It is likely that he does not know the true extent of his powers, and his magic is able to _respond_ on his behalf. He would need focused training to be a threat, as well as to make sure that he is _not_ a threat. However, Voldemort seems to have a very unhealthy fixation with his demise. He will likely be fighting for his life until the very moment that Lord Voldemort is vanquished.” Kingsley summarized.

Over a century ago, with a different set of people in the meeting, a similar discussion had taken place in regards to Albus Dumbledore. There was little that could be done with such powerful individuals, but the Ministry liked to attempt to keep tabs of the most powerful of witches and wizards in an attempt to “protect”the interests of the public. That is, they made sure that there were none that could truly disrupt their power, or threaten the safety of the public. Most often, they were able to know from birth, who was most likely to be an individual of raw power and potential influence. Hence the reason for the tests that all magical youth went through upon birth. The test scores, along with grades from their school of choice was carefully monitored in order to ascertain the _liability potential_ of many witches and wizards. Recent events had given the government a more free hand in focusing on the strengths and weaknesses of such individuals.

“Indeed. Mr. Potter has seem to grow beyond the results of his initial testing. And yet, he also seems to be a wizard of mediocre caliber. Were the tests wrong? Could he be a threat?” Amelia asked, mostly to herself, but knowing that her most trusted advisors had heard her. These were the thoughts that she had to deal with as essentially the face of public security. In the magical world though, one could never be too comfortable with what they _thought_ , as opposed to what they could prove.

“We will continue to gather information Madame Bones.” Rufus spoke as he gave a curt nod and excused himself. Kingsley stuck behind for a few more moments, motioning for Moody to do the same.

“Madame, I hope that I am not overstepping my boundaries, but I do not believe Mr. Potter to be a threat. At least, not a threat to the public at large. I do believe that he will do anything to survive, but he still has a kind heart, and a fierce loyalty for doing what is right. We could recruit him, but I highly doubt that Dumbledore would allow that to happen. If anything, we need to closely monitor him.” The deep voice spoke.

“For the most part, I do trust Dumbledore when it comes to a judge of character. Further, if Mr. Potter does steer himself to the lesser glories of magic, Dumbledore may be the only one capable of stopping him. I would like to meet him. Alastor, would you mind arranging for a meeting? I can promise his safety and security, and I am willing to meet him wherever, preferably outside of the Ministry. We all know that these walls have ears. That will be all gentlemen. Stay vigilant.” Amelia responded.

The article from earlier in the day still sat heavily with her. Coupled with the information that she now possessed, and her picture of Harry Potter was even more muddied. He was a magically powerful, politically popular, underaged wizard. This sort of combined power hadn’t been seen in quite some time.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Lord Voldemort stalked the darkened caverns, his wand held casually in his right hand, his Familiar Nagini trailing slightly behind him. Outside of the two, there didn’t seem to be a single soul in sight. Voldemort knew better though. His senses were second to none and he could _feel_ the folks watching them as they walked. He had no concerns. They would either follow him or be eradicated. A trick of magic made the hallway appear to be infinitely longer than it was truly, but a negligent flick of his left hand dispelled such illusions. He could see the hidden entry way before him, as well as the hall of guards that he and Nagini had ghosted past.

He had entered Mortuorum. Only those deeply steeped within history knew the original name of this land. For most people, it was enough to know that it was vampire territory. It was the land of the dead. Sequestered by the threat of eradication by the Ministry of Magic, the vampires had a society all of their own. They still hunted of course, but only when necessary, and mostly from nearby farm animals. The wary muggle that walked past, or near enough to count as walking past, was eagerly snatched up and celebrated. It was the place that Voldemort had come to.

“Speak your piece wizard.” A gravelly voice spoke.

Voldemort simply smirked in response, his true emotions hidden behind a mask of nonchalant readiness. “It would do well for you to address me with a modicum of respect, Henrik.”

“State your reasons for being here _Lord_ Voldemort. Unless you wish for me to set my people upon you.” Henrik replied.

“I’d destroy them all. What you fail to realize Henrik, is that I am unlike any other wizard you have met before. This wand, this one wand could carve your heart out and my will alone could keep you alive long enough to eat it. Send your people to their deaths if you dare.” Voldemort spoke, his face a mask. He was motionless, and yet still looked deadly.

The staring contest between he and Henrik went on for several more moments, before Henrik made a motion with his hand, signaling to the guards.

“We shall hear your words _wizard_.” Henrik spoke again.

“You will serve me, in return I give you free reign. It’s quite simple really. What you and your kind lack is support. I can provide that, and we can exist in a world where a government does not exist. You must be restless in these hills, with mere animals to satisfy the pallet. The moment you cross me, I will hunt down every vampire in your coven and slaughter them like animals. And trust me, Henrik, it would not take me long to do so.”

Henrik sat still for a long moment, not blinking, and not appearing to breathe either. His pale skin shone brightly in the light provided by the chamber. His milky red eyes hid a fury behind them. Lord Voldemort, though, could see the appeal to the offer. That was all that mattered at this point.

“Agreed. We are at your disposal.” Came the deep voice of Henrik, Lord of the Dead.

“I will send you instructions.” Came the hiss-like response from the Dark Lord. Nagini wrapped her long body across his torso, much of her length still on the ground. He twisted on his heel and disappeared into a cloud of dark smoke, which immediately dispersed.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Auror Samantha Roberts, class of ‘72, surveyed her surroundings with a frown. For the past few years, she had seen a change in her position and her duties as an auror. She had gone from an undercover agent, to a “street walker”, and finally found herself at the most boring pinnacle of them all; Captain of the Minister’s Guard. It was a prestigious position to be certain, and gave her a level of power within the Ministry that few could match. And yet, as an Auror, used to fighting criminals and solving tough cases, it was boring work. Simply put, no one ever threatened the Minister.

The last Minister to be attacked had been during the reign of Grindewald. Though the dark wizard had not turned his sights directly to Britain, he had agents all over the world, moving at his whim. The Minister at the time had barely made it. What had started off as an intermagical conference, had turned into a bloodbath. On the presence of Albus Dumbledore himself had deterred the attackers. Now however, the Minister went nowhere without a guard.

Including herself as Captain, 5 fully-trained aurors, some seniors and others juniors, stayed near. To complement their prowess was a rotating squad of Hit Wizards, usually about 8 thick themselves. There were contingency plans for nearly every possible events. Some _contingency_ plans had contingency plans of their own. Continuity of government and all that. Usually, the Captain served only one Minister in their lives, while the rotation of Aurors and Hit Wizards could change with the stroke of a quill.

On a typical night, it was quiet at the Ministerial home. Quiet and boring. The one thing she had always been taught in the Academy was to never become complacent, to never become accustomed to an assignment.

It was a tough job. Despite being only part of his protection, articles such as the one released this morning had a way of making her life difficult. The Ministerial house was not unplottable, as it was deemed public property. It held powerful wards, and they had never been breached. Though, that was a combination past Ministers choosing to not reside there, and there being tangbile peace since the buidling of the property. Even still, she had to keep an eye out; paparrazzi had a way of finding out information and finding a way onto the grounds.

It was a delicate balance to protect a public figure, and still keep him accessible to the evry people that elected him. In such tense times, though, that was both a blessing and a curse.

“Auror Jones, status report.” Roberts spoke, starting the customary check-in procedure with her team. Jones, a stocky ex-Hufflepuff, recently from the Auror Academy was one of the newest additions to the team, but a fine one. He followed orders, asked no questions, and was diligent with his work.

“Message received, situation is calm and quiet Captain.” Jones replied. Roberts heard him through the small piece of jewelry that all Auror teams received while on a mission. It was some tricky runework, but it allowed all of the jewels within a certain radius to correspond with one another. They had to be periodically charged and refreshed, and had a range of nearly 5 miles. However, it was a closed network. It had been a struggle to include more than 8 of the spelled pieces into one loop. It was for this reason that all Aurors still carried a pouch of Floo powder, and were trained in sending messenger spells should all else fail.

She had just opened her mouth to follow the next chain of command when the alarm for the Intruder Ward sounded.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Lord Voldemort approached the gates of the Ministerial Manor with slow steps. Casually, he flicked out a cube of marble, enlarged it to its full size, and threw it on the path near him. The Anti-Apparition Jinx that he had carved into the cube would hold for exactly 21 minutes. It wouldn’t take him that long to send his message.

He raised his wand and thrust it towards the enchanted gates. Once his own magic leached onto the magic embedded in the spiked gates, he _yanked_ his wand back towards him. The protection runes had been meticulously carved into the gates themselves; he simply ripped the foundation itself apart, never disturbing the wards. Immediately, he felt the pulse of an Intruder Ward. He had missed it, but it was a small matter. His presence would be announced regardless.

“Stop right there! Drop your wand and put your hands on your head.” An Auror, male shouted at him loudly.

“No.” Came the simple response. It seemed to leave the Auror stupefied until the last thing that Auror saw was a beam of green energy speeding towards him.

Spellfire erupted to his left, and Voldemort jerked his wand high, bringing forth a mound of dirt to absorb the spells. In the dust from the collision, he twirled his wand around his body in a figure eight and _pushed_. The heavy debris of what was left of his protection sped towards to small group of Hit Wizards forcing them to  separate.

Voldemort smirked. His dark cloak fluttered with the strength of his magic as he made ready for battle. He batted away one, two, four, ten spells from the half-dozen Hit Wizards before him. They weren’t sending tickling charms at him, that much he knew for sure. It was to their folly that they likely didn’t even recognize him.

“Reducto!” Came a loud voice to his right. Voldemort twirled, pointing his wand directly at the spell as it flew towards him. One swift twirl and he was taking control of the _intent_ behind the spell, viciously ripping it from the caster. He pivoted, dodging several spells in the process, and threw the spell at a different wizard.

This was almost fun for him.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

She watched in morbid satisfaction, the way he slapped the spells aside, easily. WIth a nonchalant twirl of his wand the Dark Lord captured a spell from a Hit Wizard and forced it back at him, even stronger than before.

They were getting dismantled and he hadn’t even tried to go on the offensive.

“Get the Minister out of here!” She bellowed, throwing her own spell towards the monster before her. He took it and threw it at one of her team mates., He died too quickly to scream. Their numbers were dwindling down, they were without a form of communication. He was destroying them, and having fun doing it. They were not equipped to fight the Dark Lord.

She weighed her options. Her mandate, above all else, was to ensure the safety of the Minister of Magic, no matter what. In her moment of hesitation, she saw another of her comrades be disemboweled, and cast to the side.

Suddenly she was blown back by a powerful concussive force. From her darkening vision, she could see the scattered bodies of her comrades, and the untouched form of Lord Voldemort. He stood in the center of a crater admiring his handy work. With a negligent gesture with his wand, he cleared himself a path to the front doors.

“Oh Cornelius…” He called, his voice causing her heart to freeze.

She blacked out, but not before she heard the echoing scream of the Minister of Magic.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

She watched from afar, but so close. She could see his pain, feel it as if it were own. And yet, his strength never wavered – at least to anyone but her. She knew him, sometimes better than he did himself. She saw how he work his pain as a cloak, a defense against those trying to get too close. A defense against her, perhaps.

  
She’d like to think that she knew her place in his life. Dumbledore was the grandfather; wise, strong, powerful but gentle. Professor Lupin was an uncle; fun loving but supportive all the same. The Weasley’s were an adopted family; brothers, a sister, a surrogate set of parents. Yes, everyone had their role in his life. Everyone except for her.

 

Was she a sister? It she considered it, then possibly. But a sister shouldn’t feel for her brother what she felt for him. Thy were much too young to be married – and yet, if she were to let herself dream, she could see the possibility. 

  
He was too much of a gentleman to be any but nice and sweet towards her. Oh, he said harsh things from time to time, but that was simply chalked up to a young man under stress. At the end of the day, she knew that he treasured her presence. How and why? Well, she had yet to figure that out. 

  
It scared her, if she was being honest with herself. In some ways, she was more scared to find her role in his life than she was of the nightmares that kept her awake. He scared her. She could admit that now. She was terrified of him, and for him. It was nearly enough to driver her crazy. Indeed, she had her moments where she simply needed to get away, to take a breath and re-center herself.

  
But, she couldn’t help but be drawn to him It was more than his green eyes, or his highly-recognized skill for quidditch. It was much more than the fact that he was the Boy-Who-Lived. It was more than his having saved her life, or befriended her. 

  
Though she couldn’t put her finger on it, she knew it was more than what most appreciated about him. He was a magnet, and she very well could be the strongest metal ever known. 

  
Of course, she wasn’t the only one attracted to him. She knew that for a fact. Those on the fringes, they saw the scar, the fame, and the fortune and never anything else. Those slightly closer, the Ginny Weasley’s of the world, saw him as a personal here and savior. Still, she saw for more than that. She saw deeper than anyone. 

  
She saw the nightmares, the sleepless nights, the controlled feat, She also saw the desperation, the need and desire to be loved fiercely. She saw how alone he was, even surrounded by throngs of people. She saw the uncertainty at times, and even the self-loathing. And she saw how he overcame all of that for others in need. She simply saw deeper. 

  
No one had ever taught her how friendships were supposed to be. In primary school, before Hogwarts, best friends were a dime a dozen. It could be as simple as the sharing of a favored toy, and a friendship was struck.

  
No one ever told her that friendships could be forged through blood, sweat, tears, and magic. No one told her that real friends could communicate with a single glance. No one told her that being a friend meant being willing to stand between a friend and a supposed killer. She hadn’t known that shoving a wand up the nose of a troll and scrambling its brain could be the foundation of a new life, or of a new understanding. No one ever told her that she could fall in love with her bestfriend.

  
People were complicated. That’s why she stuck to a good book. 

  
Suddenly, she was at his door, hand raised to knock. She couldn’t remember the walk up the stairs or setting down her book. But, she had to check on him, someone needed to. Everyone expected him to be strong, but were rarely there to catch him when he fell from being too strong for too long.

  
“Looking for me?” Came a voice from her right. She hadn’t heard him approach either. His training had been going very well apparently. She turned to address him, only to lose the rest of her conscious thoughts. Harry Potter stood in front of her, clad only in a towel. It was quite a sight.

  
He had the good nature to blush, deeply. She knew, without seeing, that her face matched it. She had never imagined this moment.

  
Well, that wasn’t totally true. 

  
She had definitely imagined it, just not as real as this. He had likely just come from the shower, as damp as his hair was. Quidditch had done him very well. The supplemental potions, had taken it to a different level.

 

He had already been wiry, with concealed strength. Now, he had looked to add a few pounds of muscle. He would never be a bodybuilder, but the stronger shoulders gave him an impressive physique. His chest, toned, glistened with the water dripping from his hair. His arms, too, looked bigger, fuller even.

  
And he had tattoos!!!!

 

Several of them, she now noticed with a blush. She been too intent in her dissection to notice the colorful beast adorning his torso. On the right shoulder, he had what looked like a cross, It was large, but simple and elegant. In the upper left quadrant was a flower. In its reflection, on the other side was what she recognized as a stag, with a full rack. In the lower left, under the flower, there was what looked like the profile of a howling wolf. Next to it, as dark as night, was the grim.

  
He spoke before she could continue to study him. Or maybe, he had already been talking. She’d never know.

  
“Hermione? Are you well? You look a bit flushed?” Harry spoke, reaching out to jolt her back to attention. It was the shock of the touch that had brought her back to the here and now.

  
“What? Yes, I am q-quite well, thank you.” The bookworm responded, attempting to clear her throat.   
  


Harry appeared to ponder it for a moment before shrugging. “Oh…well, you had spaced out a bit there. I was worried.”   
  
“No, I was just looking at you – er, your scars I mean.” She recovered quickly. Indeed, aside from the obvious scar on his forehead, his body told a horrific story.

  
Without thinking, she reached out and touched his shoulder. The scar was large, jagged and painted a picture of an awful wound.

  
“That’s from the dragon, 4th year. She was a beauty wasn’t she?” Harry spoke, a fond look upon his face. He was remembering, most likely, what he reviewed as a wonderful flight. She, on the other hand, remembered tightly clutching the arm of their other best friend, trying to track and follow the treacherous flight path of the Firebolt and the Norwegian Ridgeback.

  
“She could’ve killed you Harry. That’s not funny, you prat.” Hermione responded with a mock glare. The dragon had been beautiful, in a deadly fire-spurring way. She could look back on that moment with a smile. “And this one?”

  
“Ah, I may have gotten bit by a basilisk once upon a time.” Harry replied, rubbing the jagged circle right beneath the crook of his elbow.

  
“It bit you? How are you still alive? That’s one of the most potent poisons in the world!” 

Hermione asked, slipping back and forth between concerned friend and academic genius. 

  
“Fawkes.” Harry stated simply. Hermione immediately nodded, knowing that a mixture of phoenix tears was indeed a cure. 

  
“And this one?” She asked, pointing to the opposite arm.

  
“Ah, courtesy of Wormtail. I am going to kill him, I swear it.” Harry spoke with a fierce strength.    
Hermione didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. It was far too close to a situation he had refused to talk to her about. It was tough on her, as his bestfriend, not knowing what was haunting him at night, what his experiences were, and how he could sleep at night after touting his deceased classmate from a battlefield.

  
“The rest are from Quidditch, Vernon, Dudley and his friends, and various scrapes across the castle. Some of them, well most of them, are too old to erase the scars themselves, - but, I’ve grown rather fond of them…” Harry trailed off.   
  
“They make you unique. And they tell the story of a survivor.” Hermione finished for him, nodding her agreement.

  
“If you would, I’d like to get into my room and put on some clothes?” Harry asked, smirking as he reached around her to open his door. “You can come in, I’ll just toss on something comfortable.”

  
“Why didn’t you use the shower in your room?” Hermione asked, blushing as images of a raven-haired wizard with water cascading down his body.

  
“My shower?” Oh that – well, I might’ve blown it up on accident.” Truthfully, he had had a nightmare and in his reflection he saw himself as a demon of sorts. So, he blew the mirror up. 

However, instead of one reflection of him, it turned into hundreds.

  
He had blown those up too.

  
It was safe to say that his bathroom was in no condition to be used. Luckily, for him at least, Hermione didn’t question him. With her back to him, she never saw the quick flash of pain across his features. He needed to control himself better, in more ways than one. He turned back to her.

  
He took a deep breath, and she mirrored him. He found himself staring at her chest, fascinated y the swell, and the scar he could see peeking from under her shirt. He was reaching towards her before he could consciously stop himself.

  
“It goes diagonally across my chest. Madame Pomfrey said that had it been verbal, it likely would’ve cleaved right through me.” She spoke, trying to not react to his touch.

  
“I’m so sorry,” Was all he could say. How could you apologize for very nearly costing someone their life. He didn’t think they taught that class at Hogwarts.

  
“I’d do it again for you.” Hermione spoke. 

  
Suddenly she found herself wrapped in his arms , the hug fierce and powerful. Every thought left her mind, and she found that she had been holding her breath.

  
“I don’t know what I would do without you.” Harry spoke, slightly muffled due to her hair.

  
“Let’s hope we never have to find out.” Hermione responded after a while. They pulled apart, slowly. Suddenly she smirked and reached up to tap his forehead. “Now, we both have scars.”

  
“Mine is so much more cooler than yours.” Harry teased.

  
“You wish. Goodnight Harry.” Came the reply as she started to walk out of the room.

  
“Goodnight Hermione.” He whispered in response.   
  
  
  


 


	13. Lessons in Magic and History

It was far too early to be in this much pain. He knew that for certain. It was also far too early to be picking himself off the ground time and time again. And yet, here he was.

Damn this training.

“What have we learned today Harry?” The old man, his tormentor and his Headmaster asked of him.

“That I will never beat you.” Harry responded. The statement had been true up until this moment, but for the life of him, he could not see himself ever besting the venerable man in a duel.

“Well, perhaps. Don’t sell yourself short. Remember that I have more than a century more experience with my magic than you. Add to that, I know a great many more spells than you. You are gifted, but at 15 years of age, the amount of spells that you know are limited to classroom instruction and some of the spells that you have taught yourself.” Dumbledore, ever the humble one, responded with a smile.

“Sir, you beat me with household spells. I can still taste the dish soap.” Harry spoke, spitting to the side to emphasize his point. It truly had been humiliating to get destroyed with spells that he had witnessed Mrs. Weasley use to prepare for and clean up after dinner.

“Technically, what we had was more of a one-sided duel. I let you use whatever spells you wished, and I relegated myself to using only household charms.” Dumbledore started with a chuckle, before glancing at Harry and turning solemn, “What we are preparing you for is to fight. Not to duel. The difference being that the opponents that you will find yourself facing – and it will be inevitable – will never take in consideration your age and what you may or may not know. They will be out to cause you as much pain as possible, and if allowed, to kill you. I know that as a young man, you have a bit of a rebellious streak. Because of that, I want to change the way that you think and the way that you perceive magic and the spells that you use.”

“That..that actually makes sense.” Harry replied, comforted in the fact that he was not being truly tormented, but instructed.

“The burden that you carry is heavy. All that I have ever wanted to do was to lighten this burden for you. I would carry it for you if I could. I declared that before you were ever a student in my school, and when you were only an infant that tugged on my beard. Now, seeing the young man standing in front of me, with a heart as pure as the best Goblin gold, I know that I would lay my life down for you. That, Harry, is the power of love.” Dumbledore spoke, placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder. They were nearly the same height now.

“Love, of course, makes one do some great things. Likewise, it can force one to do some terrible things. You have the power in you already to do all that you must. What most people won’t realize is just how different this war will be from the last war. Voldemort is much more dangerous now, and more powerful. We live in a bigoted world, and some people will use is rise to power as a way to manipulate events to their benefit. You will have enemies on all sides. Most don’t know this, but I have so many titles because I want to always know what’s going on, and hopefully effect change for the greater good. Am I perfect? No, not even in my wildest dreams. However, the best that you and I can do, being imperfect, is to be the best people that we can be for the most people possible.”

“But how am I supposed to fight him. He can literally duel you to a draw, and you just wiped the floor with me using only household spells. There’s a gap, Headmaster, and it’s not getting any smaller.” Harry spoke.

“All true. However, I stand by my faith in you. Your instinct for magic is far greater than even Tom’s. Think of how much you’ve learned in the days since you were ambushed by Bellatrix. All it takes is a bit of effort.”

“I suppose I never truly tried.” Harry muttered, reflecting on his hurried days. He hadn't even taken time to process it all.

“And I suppose I could have given you a reason to want to try. My plan, Harry, was to have you come to Hogwarts humble, happy, and healthy from a loving family. You were healthy, in a fashion. You are humble, but that's only because you have never felt anything to truly be proud of. How could you, if your relatives would simply take it from you? Because of that, you were not happy.” Dumbledore spoke, turning slightly to answer Harry.

“But sir, I….” Harry tried, but was silenced by a raised hand from Dumbledore.

“Let me finish Harry. Where was I? Ah, yes. You were not happy. And yet you stood before a troll to save the life of a young girl you hardly knew. You battled with a legendary creature with naught but a sword. The Dementors. The Tri-Wizard tournament. And even last year you overcame vast odds to rise up and teach your fellow classmates how to defend themselves. Simply marvelous.”

“Thank you, sir. I wouldn't have made it without my friends.”

“You are truly on the path to become the greatest wizard of your age Harry. It's not always about power and using it to manipulate and lord over people. No, if anything, power is being able to invoke such a feeling in others that they are able to be better than they were before. Power is knowing when to use it and knowing when to use other means. Love is power Harry. That is why you have my complete and utter faith in all that you do.”

“Thank you, sir. That really means a lot to me.”

“I am flattered, Harry, that you still have such a high opinion of me despite the hardships you could lay at my feet. It speaks volumes, even to the death. Back to much more pleasant thoughts, how do you think you’ve progressed?”

“I’m still not sure Professor. I mean I obviously can’t beat you, but how much does that account for? I had never thought of that before. How many people have ever beat you? So, I have to weigh that with the fact that I am nearly 16 years old now. From my readings at the end of the year, and my studies this summer, I think I understand magic better. As it relates to me that is. I find that with all of this training, I am catching on to spells easier.”

“Ah yes, not many people have had magic expressed and explained to them in a manner that is custom fitted to them. How much better would a Neville Longbottom be, if he had the same opportunity?” Dumbledore spoke. Harry thought that was an interesting question.

“Can’t you talk to him?” Harry asked. It made sense, sort of. Harry watched as Dumbledore seemed to think the question, while giving his wand a slight twirl and conjuring a rather comfortable looking chair. The headmaster sat before he composed his answer.

“I can. I have, instead, delegated the task to different professors with whom he has a better relationship. Some still see me as some sort of mystical figure. Further, his grandmother, Merlin bless her, is a strong-willed woman, and we have not always agreed on the best approach. Specifically, in Mister Longbottom’s case, his grandmother holds him in comparison with his father. Their upbringings were completely different, and as a result, they, too, are completely different.”

“Ah, I see. Neville has mentioned her once or twice before. She’s on the Wizengamot right?” Harry asked.

“That is correct, Harry. She is a formidable woman, to both her allies and her opponents. But, let us digress. Do you remember how we spoke of how the Ministry of Magic uses different classes to decide how powerful a witch or wizard may be?” Dumbledore asked.

“Yes, of course, sir. You said something about there are different levels, but that it was not a precise, er science?” Harry asked, tapering off towards the end.

“Yes, more or less. It is not precise due to the fact that measuring magic in a person, at any given time, is nearly impossible. Sure, one could feel the magic in another user, especially once they become more attuned to their own magical signature. However, it must be noted that some magic users don’t develop a discernable aura, for lack of better words. Augusta Longbottom took the readings far too literally, and has attempted to shape Neville into a wizard that he may not need to be. So, just because a reading says that a child may or may not achieve a certain level of, let’s say magical affinity for this case, does not mean that they would be more or less powerful than their predecessors.”

“So the pureblood propaganda means what then? Does blood not truly matter? Magically, that is?” Harry asked, completely interested in understanding the root of a lot of discrimination in the magical world.

“Ah, such a difficult question. Purebloods are neither right nor wrong in their beliefs of blood superiority or inferiority. A lot of purebloods, not so many generations ago, believed that they were closer to the true ideal of magic, that they were more powerful, and that they would be traditional in the use of their magic. The truth of the matter is far more complicated of course. Some people are simply more talented, and the use that talent. Others, are talented, and do not use their talents. Some people are simply stronger, and others weaker. The ancient bloodlines, of course, are able to produce an exceptionally powerful and talented witches and wizards when the right circumstances are aligned.” Dumbledore spoke. Harry sensed there was more, so he stayed quiet.

“And yet, for each and every Voldemort, there is a Cornelius Fudge. Not to say that Cornelius is not a capable wizard, but his talents lie in a different area. Tom Riddle for all of his faults and crimes is one of the most gifted and powerful young magic users that I have ever encountered. His circumstances, in conjunction with such talent, led him down a road to becoming Voldemort. Let me take a step back, I have personally seen purebloods of the highest order produce what they would consider a lesser magic user, or, to put it politely, one who would put shame on their family’s name. Remember, some families can trace their roots back to the Founders themselves, and other legends of magic before them. To them, that purity, that family history is more important than anything. And yet, I have witnessed two muggles produce a child that is extremely powerful and talented.”

“You mean, like Hermione?” Harry asked, his mind flickering to his bestfriend automatically. He was sure she was the brightest witch of her age, not just due to the way that she studied, but that way that she strived to understand magic.

“Exactly. The long and short of it is that magic cannot truly be predicted. We can measure how strong a spell, ward, or enchantment is, but not necessarily how strong that person’s next spell or enchantment will be. Circumstances change everything. Originally, Miss Granger, on a sheer power scale, may not be the most powerful witch in the world, but due to her diligent work, and her innate magical ability, she can outperform nearly all of her peers. Does that make sense?” Dumbledore asked.

“Yes. At least, I think so. The way that I see is that there is both talent and power, but your blood doesn’t really affect the level directly. Some people, I think, are simply better or er, more proficient with certain fields of magic. Which doesn’t mean that they’re not capable of using other fields of magic. Right?” Harry paused, but continued before his headmaster could respond. “It’s like some muggles are rather gifted with playing a musical instrument. It doesn’t mean that someone else can never learn to play, just that some people are more… well, skillful I guess. For the second person, the person that learned, well it seems like that is where their intelligence comes into play. They are smart enough to learn the words to music, so to speak, and therefore can apply them in a given order and create some sound.”

He paused there, not just to catch his breath, but to catch up to his rambling mouth. It made sense, to him at least. Some people understood magic more so than others, which made their instincts and grasp of magic that much more noticeable. The talent aspect, of course played a vital role. A trained violinist would probably never measure up to one who simply understood music at a very fundamental level and personalized it instinctively.

“You speak of, essentially, aptitude, intelligence, and talent. I would add in that willpower comes into play when using magic, and learning magic.” Dumbledore added.

“And effort!” Harry inserted, before explaining at the urging of the older wizard. “Well, you can have the aptitude, the intelligence, the talent, and the willpower… and yet you can be as lazy as a Flobberworm and it would mean nothing. Someone with more eagerness in their studies could potentially catch or match this gifted person. I think.” Harry finished with a laugh. Were conversations on magic always this exhilarating? If so, he could see why the Headmaster continued to study, and wanted to spend his days around knowledge.

“And what will you do with this information? Earlier I asked you, how would you rate your progress. Has your answer changed?” Dumbledore probed, his twinkle evident in his eyes.

“I’m not sure I have an answer for that Professor. It’s not an easy question to answer, and I’ve asked myself before what was stopping me from being great. I could never answer it. It’s hard to be impartial when I am speaking of my own faults.”

“I see.” Came the reply. Then there was silence. “Well, as we spoke of before, not everyone has the same connection to their magic. Or rather, it may be simpler for me to say that no two magic-users are born with the same aptitude for magic. We have already established that. A very small percentage, across the world mind you, have such an intuitive grasp on magic. Answer me this, Harry, how would you describe the way your friends use magic?”

“Ron… well, I’m not sure that Ron puts forth the most effort to be honest. Not to say that he’s lazy, but he’s easily distracted and frustrated, and I’m certain that doesn’t help his proficiency. He is extremely emotional, and has a tough time overcoming that. Once he gets a spell though, he usually has no problem with it.” Harry spoke, thinking of the gangly redhead. He was shocked at his own admission though, and wondered how his friends approach to magic affected his own.

“And Miss Granger?” Dumbledore asked with a small smile.

“Hermione studies every aspect of a spell, from its creation to whenever it was first used. She’ll look up the eti- umm, what’s the word?”

“Etymology.” Dumbledore supplied.

“Yes, that one. She’ll have all this background knowledge, and I guess the spell seems familiar to her when she first does it. Even if she didn’t get it right on the first try, she’s usually the first to get it done, and perfected. It’s quite a sight to see to be honest.”

“Very astute. The professors have expressed some of the same information that you have, but from a far more technical standpoint.” Dumbledore started, and then seemed to pause, his eyes twinkling madly. Harry had a feeling on the question he was supposed to ask, but dreaded the response that he would receive.

“And what do they say about me Professor?” Harry finally succumbed. It was inevitable, and just like Dumbledore to never actually answer the question, unless he asked directly.

“It’s funny that you ask that my boy. Quite a few professors are of the mindset that you are holding yourself back, not supplying your true skills where they may be used. Some say that there are times where you do not even practice a spell until you have seen Hermione perfect it. Others say that you spend a great deal of time trying to not be the first person done with a spell. We go back to the idea of effort that you mentioned, and your apparent lack thereof. May I ask why?” Dumbledore spoke. A small gesture from his wand and another chair popped in for Harry’s use. He sat down, his eyes not seeing any of his present surroundings. He was taking himself back to the Dursley’s before he went to Hogwarts.

Damn.

It was a tough question. Dumbledore had just asked him to dissect himself and offer up the remains. He wasn’t sure that he could do that. If he took a good look at things, he could be frightfully honest with himself. He didn’t try. He had many more years of being successful in his learnings and being punished for the effort, than he had with being rewarded.

It was ingrained in him to be subpar.

For more than decade, if he was being honest with himself. It wasn’t just the comments from his Aunt and Uncle, but the fact that he had convinced himself that he was better off if he did not try his best. He needed to understand the material enough to elude the notice of his instructors. He had at least convinced himself of that fact. If he pretended that he knew the material necessary, he would be able to slip their notice and avoid a tough punishment from his relatives. They were dead now, but did their influence of his life still continue? He’d have to answer that question later.

“I guess, I have always been that way.” Harry finally answered, still feeling a bit awkward while talking to his Headmaster on such a tremulous topic. It wasn’t every day that he was able to be this vulnerable in front of an authority figure.

Dumbledore was silent, his blue eyes hiding his true response.

“The Dursley’s were…tough to deal with. It was a lot of hatred in every action, and nothing that I did seemed to please them at all. It was hard, Professor. My instincts were always to protect myself, but never be a nuisance. From a young age, they were instilling in me the idea that it was best to listen to them. I had no other influences beyond the words of the people that I had believed had my best interest in heart. I believed that they were going to take care of me, to protect me, and to nurture me. I hadn’t experienced or witnessed the same from any other family I had been around. I was used to giving up sir.” Harry spoke, his shoe kicking a rut in the dirt beneath his feet.

There was silence for a long moment.

“I am sorry Harry. More than you can understand. I’d offer explanations, but they’d appear to only be excuses on my end. I can only hope that I can redeem myself in time. I think that –“ Dumbledore spoke, his eyes somber. He made to continue only to be interrupted by a brilliantly bright light speeding towards them. Harry stepped in front of the sitting Headmaster with his wand raised. Dumbledore made no move towards his wand; only a smile graced his features.

In front of them stopped a silvery-white Lynx. Harry recognized it as a Patronus immediately.  
“Wait, what’s a Patronus doing here? Who conjured it?” Harry asked as Dumbledore stepped forward.

“You can do a great many things with a Patronus, Harry. I will have to remember to show you how to manipulate the magic to suit your needs. This one has a message for me.” Dumbledore spoke, before directing his attention to the creature before them. “Albus Dumbledore.” He continued, his wizened voice seemed to carry.

“Albus, we have a situation. You should get to the Ministerial Manor as quickly as you can.” The deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt sounded from within the Lynx.

Dumbledore’s face seemed to drop for just a bit, before he turned towards Harry. “Alas, Harry, we must part ways. As hesitant as I am to say this, I do believe you are capable of making the right decisions without being constrained to the House of Black.”

“Are you saying that, I can –“ Harry started, nearly unbelieving, but Dumbledore cut him off.

“Yes, but within reason. I will have an Order member nearby. As gifted as you are, there are uses to have a second set of eyes looking out for you. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the unique anonymity of this person. I must leave you now. We shall keep to our usual schedule, I haven’t had this much fun in ages.”

“Yes sir. I’ll make sure to not die.” Harry spoke with a grin. With nary a sound, the Headmaster disappeared from right in front of him. In all of his years in the magical world, he would probably never get used to that.

Even though he was about to do the very same thing himself.

With a slight POP he reappeared in his chosen destination. Dumbledore, when he had taught him the basics of Apparition, had instilled in him that no two people apparated the same. It was even a fact that some adult witches and wizards would go to great lengths before Apparating. Some people could never get over the uncomfortable feeling of being squeezed through a tube. Portkeys were an option, as well as the Knight Bus, a common broomstick or even a magic carpet despite those being outlawed. He seemed to be fairly gifted with it, if one refused to count the time he left a bit of his pinky behind. Once done with that mishap, he had quickly gotten the hang of it. It was discomforting yet quick. A necessary menace. As a plus, it allowed him to run should he ever need to.

It made him wonder about Anti-Apparition jinxes and what his options were then. He’d have to rely on his feet. But the question would follow him for a bit.

He turned his thoughts to his current location and saw the bustling of the very first Wizarding Centre he had ever known. Diagon Alley was the same, and yet it was different. It had been some time since he had been here, especially alone. Molly had usually done most of the shopping for him.

The Alley was still busy but it felt different, and it took a moment for him to really put his finger on what was wrong. And then he had it. There was a palpable tension in the air. He could see the parents clutching their children closely. There was little to no sound, and he saw that some of the shops had been closed and boarded over. It unnerved him, but that was the effect of Voldemort.

He started his journey, his first destination at the very end of the alley was Gringotts.

It did not take him long to get there. He kept his wits about him, making sure he watched the area around him. Entering the golden doors, he nodded to the goblins guarding the entrance, their deadly sharp spears slanted at a precise angle. He shivered thinking of how quickly they could turn those spears upon him. Could he reach his wand in time? He walked past without having to find out.

He approached the goblin at the end of another long walk, thankful there was not a line.

“And what can Gringotts do to serve you, wizard?” The goblin, Sharptooth the name tag read, asked rather gruffly.

“I was asked to be here.” Harry spoke, and noticing that the goblin looked nonplussed, quickly added, “My name is Harry Potter. I’m a bit early, but I can’t afford to take risks.”

“Follow me Mr. Potter.” Sharptooth intoned, hopping from behind the towering desk and immediately walking away. He didn’t look back to ensure he was being followed, and Harry hurried to catch up. They passed many other goblins, each busy with their work. After many twists and turns, Harry could’ve sworn that he had seen some of the same doors more than once. Finally, they arrived. The door itself was nondescript, and the goblin wasted no time entering it.

“Wait here.” Sharptooth intoned. He moved forward to another door that Harry was just seeing and disappeared within. Moments later he opened the door and beckoned Harry with a long, sharp nail. Entering, Harry saw that another, slightly larger goblin inhabited the high-backed chair. The rest of the office was lavish, with golden instruments and statues placed in a decorative manner. The goblin, Harry assumed, seemed to be one of great importance.

“I am Ragdog the Fifth, Account Holder for the Potter family. You are Harry Potter, here at my request. We have a great many things to discuss. Please, have a seat.” Ragdog spoke, his voice just as gruff as every other goblin Harry had encountered.

“What am I here for?” Harry asked. From all his interactions with goblins, they were never ones to mince words. They simply got to the point, and it was a welcome change for Harry.

“You are very wealthy Mr. Potter. The Potters, and the lines they descended from, were always valuable customers to the Gringotts. That wealth had dwindled over the years due to war of course, but it still leaves you very well off. You could, if you so wished, not have to work a day in your life, and still have money for generations. The Black vaults added to that, nearly tripled your holdings.” Ragdog spoke. “Gringotts is in the business of growing your gold, and therefore, our own. I enjoy being in a power of prestige by having so much gold to manage. I would rather not lose that position.”

“And how do I fit into this?” Harry asked, wishing he knew more about dealing with Goblins. It sounded like he would be in over his head very soon.

“I help you, and you help me. It is quite simple actually.” Ragdog replied, eyeing Harry carefully. Not an expert at reading facial expressions, Harry was nearly an expert at noticing if he was in danger. He did not get such a sense from Ragdog, but he could feel the goblin sizing him up, assessing his value, and determining his worth.

“Let’s talk business then. I assume you have a list of what’s in the account?” Harry asked.

“Accounts, Mr. Potter. Plural, as in more than one. Tell me, have you ever received any of the literature that we sent over to you?”

“The first letter that I received was right before my 11th birthday, and it was my Hogwarts letter.”

“We assumed as such. We are not able to do anything with your accounts without your express permission, even though you were not of age according to the Ministry.”

“So, can you tell me about my vaults now?” Harry asked, filing away questions that he didn’t think were urgent now. When had he come of age according to the Ministry? Did his recent battle with Bellatrix and his subsequent death have anything to do with it? He had been using magic nearly all summer with no response from the Ministry, a thought that still troubled him.

“Perhaps, they are a bit busy with a new and improved Voldemort to worry about.” He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. What with the way that Fudge had been operating, he was uncertain if there was any true response from the Ministry.

“According to Gringotts, you have been considered an of age magic user once you entered into a legal binding contract.”

“Wait what? What contract?” Harry asked, heart pounding.

**********

Nothing would ever be the same. She was unsure of how she knew this for a fact, but it was a feeling that she could not displace. Nothing would ever be the same, at least not since the visit. The images and sounds would forever haunt her.

Her family had just sat down to an exquisite dinner, despite being fairly early in the afternoon. For once, it hadn’t just been her sister, mother, and father. Her grandparents had surprised them with a visit, bringing a litany of young cousins from the continent. It had the makings of a joyous occasion.

And then they came. The wards hadn’t been tripped, though truthfully, they hadn’t been the most impressive set of wards as the family didn’t often fear an attack. Yet and still, most people tended to not show up unannounced.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and with a feral look in his eyes, Fenrir Greyback was who she had noticed first. His smell preceded him, and his presence sucked the breath from everyone preparing to dine. What was worse was that he was not alone. There had to have been eight more of his kind, each of them licking their lips at the sight of the young children. It was sickening. As bad as his presence was, Fenrir was not the most dangerous person in the room.

That title easily belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange.

The woman still had remnants of her former beauty. Her high cheekbones had lost some of the baby fat, her hair hung across her head haphazardly, and her robes were of the deepest black. If one stared at them for too long, they could get lost in the blackness.

They made eye contact, and suddenly she felt as if Bellatrix, The Torturer, could see right through her and into her deepest desires. It was without a doubt that she could sense the fear that permeated through the room. Bellatrix licked her lips, and in some ways, it was far more terrifying than the werewolves doing so. She felt the fear in the pit of stomach grow to consume her body.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?” Bellatrix has asked as she casually sauntered about the dining room. “A family dinner. How...quaint.”

“We don’t want any trouble.” A deep voice, her father, had responded. Even with his courage, she could tell that her father was uneasy and nervous. It made her stomach tighten with thick knots. She subtly grabbed her sister’s hand under the table.

“We are not here to cause trouble. In fact, you could say that we are here to prevent trouble. The Dark Lord has returned.” Bellatrix spoke, her voice starting in a singsong manner, and quickly into a hiss of adoration upon her final declaration.

The adults in the room flinched. They had all read the paper when Minister Fudge had been forced to eat his bowler hat so to speak. They all knew that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned, they had hoped that it would pass them by, quietly. Their family did not deserve a war. The family did not deserve death.

“We have never been involved with the Dark Lord. We have always kept to ourselves. Why must this concern us?” Her father asked again.

“There will only be two choices this time.” Fenrir spoke, stepping further into the room. She had just realized that they had surrounded the dinner table. She squeezed her sister’s hand tighter. “You’re either with us or you die.”

Bellatrix laughed. It froze her blood.

“My Lord is not a patient man. We will give you 24 hours to make a decision. No decision is a decision.” Bellatrix continued.

Her grandfather stood up, wand in hand, and with an angry visage. “My family does not bow to the threats of a madman!”

Bellatrix cocked her head to the side, as if she had found a particular thought that she could not dislodge from her head. She slowly began to smile, and then her smile turned into maniacal laughter. Suddenly her wand was in her hand.

“Are you making your decision today? Do you speak on behalf of everyone you hold dear? You’re a miserable old man, whose best years is behind him. We will tear your family asunder, pillage your accounts, and destroy your bloodline. You cannot -” Bellatrix started before suddenly having to shield a vicious looking black bolt of magic from her grandfather.

There was silence, and then all hell broke loose. One of the werewolves jumped clear across the room, heading towards the side of the table where her cousins were gathered. A blasting spell from her father nearly tore the beast apart. She drew her wand, and yanked her sister from the table. She desperately flung her wand towards the table.

“Depulso!” She cried. The large, heavy table jerked in response to her desperation, rising, conveniently, to block several curses that turned the table into a pile of splinters. A forceful twirl, flick and thrust from her father turned the splinters in 3-inch nails that shredded two of the werewolves too slow to move. It was a gruesome sight, and one that would haunt her memories forever.

Suddenly she felt herself grabbed from behind. She responded by kicking backwards with as much force as she could muster and twirled around with her wand slashing towards the assumed assailant. A strong hand caught her wrist and her eyes met those of her father.

“Daddy! We have to get out of here!” She cried, still flinching from the sound of spell fire and the occasional growl of the werewolves nearby.

“Grab your sister. Run to the cellars below. In the furthest room the back, there is a tunnel that will get you out of here. They have wards up and we have no time to break through.” Her father spoke quickly, his wand still flashing to and fro. She hadn’t known that he could fight this well, but then again, there was a lot that she didn’t seem to understand.

“But…” She stammered. He pushed her roughly in the direction of the cellar door.

“I said go! Make your way to Gringotts. There is a note there that we received years ago. Hopefully, it still works. And keep your eyes open! We will hold them off as best as we can.” He turned back towards the fight.

She, as scared as she was of the happenings around her obeyed the desperation in her father’s voice. She found her sister seemingly frozen due to fear. Grabbing her hand, she yanked her along. She could not afford to be gentle at a time like this.

“We have to leave now!” She practically screamed. The battle around them continued to damage the house that she had grown up in. She didn’t have the time to watch the battle ensue. She had almost always obeyed her father, and today didn’t seem to be the night to stop doing that. She spared a glance a quick glance around and noticed that in the confusion most of the other children had been able to get away. It was the adults that occupied the attention of their attackers. She wasn’t sure how much longer the fight would last, but she knew that she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of any of the spells being thrown around.

Hurriedly, she ran, dragging her sister along behind her. Her mind was elsewhere but her feet knew the familiar wooden floors she had spent more than a decade traversing. She would not get lost this night.

The cellar, dark as always, seemed a world away from the battle above. Once past the thick oak door, the sounds seemed to disappear. All that she could hear was the breathing of herself and her sister. The high ceilings were stone, as was the floor beneath them. The cellars were truly built into the foundation of the manor. She felt a bit safer now, but still heeded the words of her father. Following the memorized path, she arrived at the door that her father spoke of.

As a kid, it had always fascinated her. It was a tall door, as nearly as tall as the ceiling, but as dark as the night. For the life of her, she could not guess what the door was made of, but she knew it was old, and had many enchantments upon it. She pressed her hand against the door, and it flared a brilliant white before easing open with hardly a sound. Her father had told her years ago that it only responded to the master of the house, so she had never dared to touch it. Now, even in the heat of the moment, she was sure she was told that to keep from trying to see what was on the other side of the door.

Through the door, she dragged her sister, who still seemed to be in some form of shock. It certainly didn’t make the escape any easier. The tunnel that she entered was surprisingly well lit with torches coming to life with every step that they took. However, the tunnel seemed to stretch on for forever and time seemed to slide past her as they continued to the destination.

Suddenly, they were at another door. It was not as well kept as the door they had originally come through but it was still thick and tall. Again, she pressed her hand to it, this time to exit. It was very dark on the other side, and it took all of her willpower to not turn and run back into the door she had just exited… only there was no longer a door there. They were in a forested area; the sky completely shrouded by tall trees. She wasn’t sure which direction was the right direction to go.

Her mind was not yet processing the location of the any of the copse near her home. Her heart started to beat faster, and she could feel her anxiety worm its way through her body. She wasn’t just scared. She was terrified.

_‘Make your way to Gringotts.’_ Her father’s voice echoed in the recess of her mind. It startled her. It was enough for her to take a deep breath.

_‘Okay, think. We’re still near home. We couldn’t have been walking for more than 10 minutes. Gringotts is a safe place. That’s step one.’_

There was only one branch that she knew of, and it was located in Diagon Alley. The question was, then, how would she get there? She could not Apparate, did not know how to make a portkey, was without a broom, and there was not a fireplace in sight. She took a few hesitant steps forward, only to trip awkwardly in the darkness. With one hand still clutching her sisters tightly, she threw out the hand holding her wand to try to steady herself.

_BANG!_

A cloud of smoke accompanied the sound and suddenly her answer slammed on its brakes in front of them. The Knight Bus had arrived.

“Where too little miss?” A tall man spoke, not unkindly. He barely looked at them as they boarded the bus and made their way to the back after quietly whispering her answer. Once at their seats, she wrapped her sister in her arms while still tightly clutching her wand.

“It’s going to be alright. You’ll see. Everyone will be fine.” Her words seemed to have the opposite of the intended effect, only serving to make her sister whimper and cry silently. She felt it in her soul.

The subsequent trip to Diagon Alley peacefully, and she regained some of her calmness, though only an abrupt loud sound to relapse. It was maddening. Diagon Alley, despite her expectations, was quiet. It was far later in the day than she had thought. It was likely that many families had been sitting to dinners, much like her own.

She quickened her step. The only sort to be out at this time of night were those that she did not want to attract. Everything she saw seemed like a threat. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was unsafe. She had grown to trust such instincts, honed from childhood games with friends. Her fears amounted to nothing. She safely made it into the shadow of Gringotts.

Even the goblins scared her. Usually she included them in the general background, and never acknowledged that they, too, were people. They were usually below her notice. It had gotten to the point, where she had once walked straight through a group of them, forcing them to scatter. She hadn’t noticed it until her father had pointed it out earlier.

Now, she noticed the precise angle that their razor-sharp spears were slanted. She noticed the suspicious glint in their eyes and the distinct tightening of their hands along their weapons. They too, it seemed, was scared of her. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Maybe it was the ragged clothing she and her sister wore. What had once been her favorite blue shirt, was not a tattered, dirty mess of cloth. Her sister looked worse, having caught a few cuts from stray spells.

Once inside the renowned bank, the process was much smoother. A drop of blood was enough to prove her identity, and for once she hated the jerking of the cart as they traveled. Her sister was still mute, and she didn’t know how to get her to relax. This was the safest that they’d been since the arrival of their “guests”.

The vault itself was the same that it had always been. Towering mounds of gold, bookcases with prior family grimoires, and old clothes from centuries past met her eyes. None of it registered. While she would certainly take some of the gold - happy that her father had authorized her - she was sure that her father had not sent her here to see their gold. She let her eyes roam further, taking in the portraits, those animated and those that weren’t. Her eyes traveled to the far back of the vault, where a box caught her eyes. She was standing in front of it and prying it open before she registered that her feet had moved.

All that lay inside was a note, the handwriting sloping and neat. It looked vaguely familiar, but she could not place it for the life of her. She read it quietly to herself, eyes disbelieving.

“Sanctuary may be found at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, home of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.”

_‘The House of Black? I wasn’t even aware there was some history there.’_ She pondered. She had no idea where to find the house, but was sure that magic would aid her in some way. She spent a few more minutes within the confines of the vault, making sure to grab as much gold as she could. She had no further knowledge of this Grimmauld Place, the condition, or if it were even habitable. Unbidden, words from her father seeped into her thoughts.

_‘You are strong. Stronger than I could have ever hoped for. I trust you to do what’s best for yourself and the family.’_ She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and headed to the exit.

Her sister still hadn’t spoken, and as she looked closely, she could see the faraway look in her eyes. She was so distracted that she had never even noticed the person she bumped into. The hand that held the slip of paper released its grip and it fluttered slowly to the floor. She was too disturbed by the person in front of her that she didn’t even notice.

In front of her stood Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.

 


End file.
